


The Song of the Saddened Eyes

by lool_gilliana (HJC_ChenZhiDe)



Series: Those Rhythms are Love [2]
Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HJC_ChenZhiDe/pseuds/lool_gilliana
Summary: A sequel toThe Melody of the Broken Heart. Jakob needs to deal with his own predicament in order to resolve the things between him and Jean (and their baby).
Relationships: Jean Milburn/Jakob Nyman
Series: Those Rhythms are Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938625
Comments: 40
Kudos: 54





	1. Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> Same goes to _The Melody of the Broken Heart_ , I will name each of my chapters according to one of the songs that I'm listening with when writing this fic. The music could/could not be related to the storyline.  
> -  
> And before you start to read the fic below, I’d appreciate it if you take some time to read this:  
>   
>  **First of all, Happy December, everyone! 2020 isn't a good year to many of us, including myself, but I still hope each of us could live through the last month of this year happily, healthily, and safe.**
> 
> **So the thing is, here's the sequel of my last Jeankob fic! And, as usual - I think I need to put a "TW" here - this fic might make you feel uncomfortable. Because this is exactly reflecting what I felt when starting to write this fic.**
> 
> **This fic focuses on Jakob. He's full of mystery to the viewers because we couldn’t know more about him from the current show. Hence, I might have created my own version of Jakob to serve the storyline, and trying to figure out what’s his past that made him today. This is why I feel anxious about writing this fic.**
> 
> **When the story of S3 is still unknown, it allows me to create something which we might not see in the show, but I personally would very much like to see it happens. However, I’m sure others may have different views about Jakob compared to the Jakob that you’ll see in this fic; and considering the feedback from TMOTBH, I know I might cause more heartbreaks. But after putting some thoughts, I decided to write in the way that I’ve planned, and hopefully, I'll bring you less harm and more enjoyment this time (fingers crossed!). So, tbh, I'm so anxious, and definitely there must have imperfections, but I’m still here to present you _The Song of the Saddened Eyes_.**
> 
> **I hope you enjoy it!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may listen to [" _Unsteady_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0lw3qylVfY) by X Ambassadors when reading this chapter  
> -  
> And many thanks to @helmifransiina and @surefinewhatev4 on Twitter for helping me to check on my Swedish translation!

He can’t sleep.

Awakening too early, he refuses to turn over to check the clock at the nightstand. He knows so. It’s still early.

Staring at the ceiling fan, he lets his eyes flood and dry all over again. He lets it be. Tears will always find their ways to re-emerge, he knows it will pass.

There have been hours since he awoke, he thinks, but it can be only a few minutes. He has lost track of time. One of the best mechanisms that he can use to cope with the long nights is forgetting about the time. Totally forget. So, there won’t be any disappointment and frustration. Because it will only tell him terrible things like 12.31 am or 2.18 am or 4.08 am, but never something more than 6 am. He doesn’t need that; he can avoid more depression than it ever comes to him.

Sometimes, he will duck into his studio and paint again. The silent night with the warming light, before the easel, he raises his brushes or roller for another layer of blue, green, black, dark blue, yellow, turquoise…he likes colours, he always likes colours. If he wasn’t a plumber, he would be a painter. He’s quiet, he likes the way these colours help him to express those thoughts that he can’t put into words. Then, he will sit on the wooden floor with his early smoothie, watching the sunrise through the big windows, feeling the cold house becomes warm.

But he has to be careful. Sometime before Ola’s usual wake up time, he has to sneak back to his room to avoid her, or pretend he just gets up not long before her, or else this devil little girl will be cornering him at the kitchen island before breakfast and asks him if he stayed up again last night. 

_“Talk to me or go to see a therapist,”_ towards the end, she will always threaten him this way. _“Or else I’ll just call Olga.”_

Thank God, he knows the threatening level isn’t high enough to be alert, his devil big girl isn’t in the country at the moment. Student exchange in Malaysia, one year. Thank whatever God out there.

So, it’s just another night. 

Every single cell in his body now awakens, alertly reminding him of another failed attempt to fall asleep. He shall close his eyes like he used to be, regulate the breathing, try to find the inner peace…or leave his bed to go to the studio, or just sit at the window seat looking at the woods. The night will be gone, even when it seems so long; and the sun will rise from the horizon, beaming its shine through the branches that could touch the sky.

But tonight is more than any other night, it’s overwhelmed, it passes agonisingly slow, almost immovable. He’s painfully awake and knows that things won’t be the same anymore. Deep down in his bones, the pain that deposited for years has set up home, parasitizing inside his body and respiring with his breaths. He fights back, trying to take control, but it just brings more sorrow and despair. 

They’re eating him, like many years ago. They’re killing him.

Shutting his eyes immediately, he tries to shield his world from the darkness outside. _Count to ten_ , Jean used to say. No, not Jean –

_I need you in my life, Jakob._

Not Jean, not Jean! 

_I’m pregnant._

Terrified, his eyes are widely opened as he gasps for the air desperately, the deadly sight fixes on the ceiling fan. Closing the eyes is no longer useful. It won’t go away. Bad things just won’t go away. He’s still _missing_.

Time will pass, the morning will come. He knows he can’t sleep. 

Falling all over again from the top of nowhere, nobody can catch him.

•

“So, you would like to do a semen analysis, sir?” the petite receptionist asks, standing across the registration counter.

“Yeah,” he answers. A bit bashful, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans.

Jakob left the house in the morning. Though he knew that Ola would probably wake up late as her shift for the book fair today is at 2 pm, but he didn’t want to stay in his bed any longer. He left her a note on the breakfast table, telling her the soup is kept warm in the slow cooker that she needs to turn it off before she leaves for work.

His first appointment of the day is scheduled after lunchtime, on another side of the town. So, he still has plenty of spare time. He drove to the only 24-hour corner shop in Moordale as most of the shops are not yet opened, grabbing two sets of tuna sandwiches as his additional breakfast. As he settled himself on the bench outside the shop, he never thought that one day he would try googling “sperm test near me” on his phone.

He wants to make sure. It isn’t a matter of trust or distrust; he just wants to know. He knows Jean, she’s upstanding and ethical, she won’t simply come to him and tell him that she’s pregnant if the child isn’t _his_ …he hesitates for a moment, his fingers twitch against the phone screen. Suppressing the growing ache sowed in his heart, he brushes the idea off forcefully.

Apparently, he needs someone that can provide him with proper services in the shortest period of time that have proven accuracy of its services. So, private fertility centres came to the top of the list. There is one centre that is located just ten kilometres away from where he is – it accepts private patients without a GP or doctor’s referral, flexible for prompt appointments, has its own lab, provides express analysis – and all he needs to do is pay. Sitting on the bench to see this small town rising from slumber, he waits until the operation hours and calls the centre for booking, and, fortunately, he’s actually getting his appointment scheduled at one and a half hours later. Though he winces at the reminder across the line where _you must abstain from sexual intercourse or ejaculation for three to five days prior to your appointment_ – shyly, he confirms that he has, unintentionally though, adhered to the condition – but this is what he’s going to do. 

When the receptionist completed his registration, he’s being sent to the waiting room. A nurse then comes to him with a pen and a clipboard that is held close to her chest, asking him some procedural questions that make him blush all over again.

“From your medical history, it shows that you had a vasectomy previously.”

This isn’t a question, but he nods. “Yes.”

“Therefore, this semen analysis isn’t for the fertility treatment purpose.”

“No.”

“Alright, sir. I believe there must be a reason for you to do the re-test for post-vasectomy analysis?”

Awkwardly, he breaks their eye-contact. “Just, uh, need a test.”

The nurse nods understandably, writing down the remarks on her chart, not going to probe his reason for being here further.

“Do you bring any of your own illustrated materials or DVDs for the procedure, sir?”

“Um…no,” he says, embarrassed. This isn’t the first time he’s doing this, but he thinks he may want to punch himself in the face. 

“It’s totally fine,” the nurse doesn’t smile, not wanting to add any more pressure. But she’s gentle and polite. “Inside the private production room, there’s a range of materials that might help you with the procedure. And you’re allowed to take your time.”

She then briefs him about the hygiene requirement before the procedure and the don’ts for the production of the sample. Also, the sample must be collected in a sterile pot with a label of his name and date of birth, he has to complete the production form after that, then the place where he needs to deliver the sample for analysis is located… 

And the last thing he knows about, is him standing in the production room, alone. The environment is way too familiar with Jean’s office, somehow, it’s frightened him.

But he breathes deeply, trying to regain his composure. Yes, he’s going to do this, no withdrawal. He’s going to do this because he really wants to know. He needs to know. Though he knows how ridiculous is this, the result may just come out the same as he read many years ago…but, on the other hand, there is a bigger part of him that desperately screams at himself to tear up whatever fuck he has believed all along.

He wants it. Even when the chance seems so small, he really wants it.

He allows himself to believe Jean.

•

He thought he would never be happy.

Jakob walks out straight from the fertility centre, taking some time to wander on the street before heading to work. For the express analysis, the results will be released in four hours. Of course, it’s a service provided with a kind payment of hundreds of pounds, but he’s okay with that, a consultant andrologist will be seeing him when he comes back to collect the report, and he’s okay with that. But his chest feels empty, he doesn’t know why. Out of nowhere, the sadness seems to follow the trails of his every footstep, melting itself into the shadow of him that sliding down on the pavement.

When he was nine, it was the first time the thought of unhappiness had ever appeared in his mind. In the drawing room, as far as he could remember, that was too big for two young kids, where the fire was crackling behind its cage at the edge of the room, radiated the heat that would make people so warm as to be forgotten. His sister was somewhere in the house with their au pair, he had no idea. But he knew he was all alone. Kneeling on the cushions, he cupped his jaw in his hands by the windowsill and stared through the window. The endless white, it was snowing outside. It was beautiful, but it was also sad. Because he didn’t feel happy – he could see the window steam up whenever he breathed – when he was so warm staying inside, there was no family.

The end of the street is leading up to the hill, an extension to another high street. Moordale is small but peaceful and slow. He likes its strangest mixture of aesthetic that makes one forget about its age. He likes its slow pace as if they can’t hear the ticks of the clock hands chasing them at the back. He likes the way people greet each other across the street where the smell of the tantalising bacon lingers out from the old café, the blossoms outside the florist brighten the day. All of these make him vaguely recall something he used to call “min lyckliga framtidsplan” when he was young: in ten to fifteen years, he would reduce his time and energy invested in his business in London, probably start a semi-retirement or even early retirement, then move to the countryside in somewhere of this country where the girls would have left home for the university while he and Maria live in a small and lovely house, enjoying their happy empty-nester life. And now, years have passed in such a way that, somehow, he’s living in the life that he has planned. Except for one thing, there is no Maria. 

Maria was his _teacher_ , as he always says, she’s not only his English teacher when he just came to the UK, but in many ways from the literal meaning, she taught him to become a better person. She taught him humour and wildness, and there was nothing a cup of tea couldn’t settle; she taught him trust, trust himself and trust others, that he could be happy, he could actually love and be beloved. She even gave him a family, a home, a rooted sense of intimacy and belonging, fulfilling his deepest desire that he was always chasing. She gave him reasons to come home every night, where he could recharge, then live his life better for another morning. But when Maria was gone, his world crumbled; suddenly, he realised there was one thing that she never taught him – _saying goodbye_.

He steadies his breaths when he’s walking up the hill, the beauty of climbing morning glory and sunshine wafting in the morning breeze. He never thought that he would end up living in Moordale with the girls. After all, without Maria, nothing ever feels the same as he has planned before. But it’s this difference that makes him able to set off on another new start. And in the end, he really likes Moordale. He especially likes the Scandinavian house that sits on the hillside surrounded by woods and river. That wooden house in red is the only thing in this place that reminds him of his turbulent young days. But when the door that has a dick-shaped doorknocker opened for him for the first time, the woman in the house sneezed at him and apologised, somewhere in his heart, he knows those days are fading away.

Jean makes him feel happy again from the deep of his heart, he won’t deny that, but it’s also Jean who teaches him the thing that Maria never had a chance to make him really understand – _saying goodbye_ , says a proper goodbye when it’s the time. When he used times to get through every single piercing shard under his feet after Maria passed away, he thought he learnt that. Only then the nightmare is now coming back to him, he realises it’s not that he has learnt, it’s because he has grown strong to bear with it. But it’s still there, as though the seeds have been sown and grown, if he isn’t stronger enough than the demon inside him, he will be eaten again. So, he needs to let go, he knows saying goodbye is never an easy thing, but it’s the only way he can pull himself back from the cliff where he needs to stay alive for all his love ones and functioning, instead of falling, instead of being swallowed again. 

His phone is vibrating crazily inside his back pocket when he walks back into the street to get his van. Muted for the procedure just now, he retrieves his phone with a sigh. It’s Ola. 

“Told you to drink the soup,” in Swedish, he says. “I left you a note on the table.”

“No, Dad!” across the line, his daughter shouts. “It’s Otis – no! It’s Jean!”

Suddenly, he can feel his heart sink.

•

Seriously, he can be caught again for speeding. The audible speed alert that Ola set on his Waze has popped up on his phone screen and screamed at him several times now, but he doesn’t care.

He cancelled all the appointments with his customers, rushing to the hospital where Jean has been admitted. Otis called Ola, Ola called him – three things, there are only three things now that taking up all his mind: Jean was bleeding, an ambulance sent her to the hospital in the early morning, and the name of the hospital.

His heart is racing, almost jumping out from his chest, and he can’t breathe. Along the road, there are many moments he thinks he can die – die from a car crash, die from lungs dysfunctional, die from panic attacks, die from the fact that he can’t take in any more lost in his life – if there is something bad happened to Jean, even with the slightest thing, he seriously thinks he won’t survive this time. 

He arrives at the hospital, bolting to the A&E, he can’t see Jean or Otis. The fear and anxiety intensify, slowly overtake his mind…no, wait, there is a reception counter. Yes, he sees it when he came in from the entrance, there is the main reception counter, people there know everything about the hospital.

He runs there immediately, clearly giving all the receptionists and administrators a big jump. “Sorry, sorry!” apologising for his reckless, his face turns red. “I’m looking for Jean, uh, Je-Jean…Milburn, yes, Milburn. Admitted this morning. Where is she?” 

“Um, Jean Milburn, is it?” a receptionist catches his eyes, staring at him for confirmation.

“Yeah! Yeah!” helpless and panic, he starts stammering. “Sh-she’s pregnant, she’s...”

 _Bleeding_. The word that sticks at the back of his throat, he can’t say it. 

“Alright, sir, please calm down,” the receptionist soothes him, then takes a quick look at her desktop before rising her eyes again. “Okay…yes, we got Jean Milburn. She’s transferred to the maternity ward on the second floor a while ago.”

He isn’t sure whether or not he has thanked the receptionist, the next time when he consciously registers his environment is when he’s clicking on the button of a lift for a brutal few times. His fingers tremble, but the lift has no sign of coming down. Hurriedly, he takes the stairs instead.

The second floor is a whole new world – quieter, fewer people, and all the corridors look almost the same. He measures his breathing before taking his steps hesitantly. There are a few people who walk pass him along the corridor: men and women, mothers and babies. He knows it’s the right place. Jean is here. At every step, he tries to pull himself up, slightly arching his back. 

Passing the delivery suite, the maternity ward is at the right end of the corridor – the ubiquitous smell of the antiseptic, more restrictions, a stronger sense of life and death – the entrance is painted in blue, guarded with a closed door. It’s all too familiar to him, memories that have been repressed now flooding back into his eyes. He approaches the midwife station, trying to calm himself.

“Excuse me,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Uh, maternity ward, right? Jean Milburn is transferred here?”

A midwife lifts her head, meeting his eyes carefully. “Sir, are you looking for the patient?” 

“Yes, this Jean…Jean Milburn.”

“Jean Milburn is indeed our patient here. Before we proceed, may I know your relationship with Jean?”

“Relationship?” stunning, he answers dryly. “I’m Jean’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Well…” the midwife stands up behind the desk, giving him a sympathetic look. “For the maternity ward, we have strict regulations on the visiting hours. All visitors other than the patient’s husband or partner, and the patient’s own children, are only allowed to visit in the specific time slot.”

It takes him several seconds to digest the information. “So, I can’t go inside, now?”

“You can’t, sir.”

“When can I go inside?”

“The visiting hours for other visitors are from 4 pm to 6 pm.”

“4?” his voice cracks, disbelief. 

The midwife nods in affirmation. “Yes.”

Glancing at the clock on the pillar of the wall, there are almost four hours to go for him to be allowed to see Jean. He needs to see Jean NOW. 

“Um…can you, can you just tell me how Jean is?” begging, his breath become hasty again. “She’s pregnant…I –” a bit devastated, he’s trying to hold back the emotions. “I really need to know how she is…”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose the patient’s condition without consent,” stretching an apologetic smile, the midwife says. “I’m sorry.”

This is the fact: he’s not Jean’s husband, he’s no longer her boyfriend, he’s nothing to her. There is no wrong for him to be rejected.

“Okay,” lowering his eyes, he mutters twice. “Okay…” 

Forcing himself to admit that he’s defeated, he lets out a long breath, steps back from the midwife station. There is nothing he can do, there is nothing he can hope for. It’s helpless. It’s the helplessness that tells him to surrender and swallows him. 

Then, it’s empty, the hollow heart hangs in the hollow skull. As though all the forceful emotions he feels have been sucked out of his body all of a sudden. He has nothing left. He feels nothing.

“Jakob?”

He flinches, the voice is pulling him back suddenly. Turning around, he sees Otis, stopping at the ward entrance and staring at him.

“Otis!” he goes forward. “Is Jean –”

All the remaining words get stuck right after he sees Otis pursing his lips and adverting his eyes away. Moments later, Otis draws his glare back at him, unfathomably and intensely. 

Somehow, he can see Jean in the boy’s blue eyes.

•

He brings Otis to the restaurant downstairs for lunch. But neither of them really eats.

More to Jakob’s surprise, Jean actually called the ambulance herself. She has been bleeding for the whole night. After spending hours in the A&E, she’s transferred to the maternity ward eventually. The good thing is – Jakob won’t think it’s _good_ , but at least it’s good after considered the whole situation – Jean is having a threatened miscarriage, the baby is safe at least for now as her cervix is closed, and the doctor detected the heartbeat of the baby in the ultrasound scan; but the bad thing is, Jean lost quite a lot of blood, and her anaemia makes the thing even worse. While her abdominal cramps are still enduring, the doctor wants to keep her hospitalised for monitoring. 

“Did they –” leaning against his own chair, Jakob asks hesitantly, tone quiet. “Did they find out why Jean is…bleeding?”

Across the table, Otis reluctantly puts down his fork. He has been smashing his chips since the beginning. “There’s a tear at the placenta, just a small separation from the uterine wall. All other things are normal, no infection. But they need an eye on Mum because she can’t stop bleeding, and she’s anaemic,” then, he raises his eyes, continues, “If she continued to bleed like that, they’re afraid she might lose the baby. And that small tear can further develop into a placenta abruption at any time after 20 weeks of gestation, there’s nothing they can do to prevent it. And if…that really happened, the baby might not survive, it could endanger Mum’s life too. So the risk is still there. The doctor asked us to prepare for the worst.”

“Risk” is the word Jakob dislikes the most. _There is a risk it can cost mother’s life_. _There is a risk your wife couldn’t get through the next phase of treatment_. _There is a risk you can kill yourself_. _There is a risk_ …

“You should have called me earlier, Otis,” finally, he speaks it out.

“It’s my mum, she doesn’t want to see you,” Otis is glaring at him. “But I think you _should_ be here.”

Otis’ glare is filled with intense hostility, he can feel it, but he holds it calmly. He knows what those eyes mean. 

“Did you know my mum’s pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“When did you know?”

He swallows, staring at the faded “FUCK” tattoo on his left fingers as he stretches them like a net on his thigh. “Yesterday.”

“Fuck!” Otis shuts his eyes tightly. He brings the hands up, pressing his eyes with his wrists. Then, he pulls away, furious. “It must be you, isn’t it? You made my mum so upset!”

Jakob lifts his head to meet Otis’ eyes. Calm and genuine, he apologises.

“I don’t need that! I just want to know why the fuck my mum doesn’t want to see you, why the fuck she’s cried so badly!” Otis yells across the table from him, but he can see his effort to keep himself restraint. “What did you do to her, huh?” 

Still holding his gaze, but there are a lot of words Jakob is unable to say. Otis is in the old t-shirt that he used to put on for the night, the blue one, with white piping, worn but looks comfortable; but he has this grey tracksuit bottoms in exchange for his short pants, he must be in a hurry when he was going out, his hair is still messy as a nest. This boy that resembles his mother, kind and sensitive and of course, terrified, but tries to be brave, how can he hurt him any further? 

“I know you came here to see my mum,” Otis says, more wilful. “But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I won’t allow you to see her!”

Jakob heaves a sigh, crossing his arms then adjusting his posture. Moving his stare to his own lemon herb chicken breast salad, it’s wet and stirred, he ponders. Where are the words when you need them? If you knew true words could make people hurt, would you still say them?

“I told Jean…I can’t get back together with her,” quietly, he says. Under the skin, his pulse jumps so high. “Before she left, she told me she’s pregnant.”

“Then?” 

His heart is skipping a beat. “I asked her to leave.”

Otis goes stiff. The silence stills in the air. He looks into Jakob’s eyes directly, searching for something. His mouth opens, but no words can he really utter.

“I’m sorry,” Jakob apologies again. He knows not only he has hurt Jean, now he hurts Otis too.

“How could you…I thought you’re a good man?” Otis furrows his brows, as he’s trying to solve a mystery that shouldn’t be a mystery. “And when I came home, she still told me she’s _okay_?”

Jakob watches him carefully. Otis squirms in his chair, distressed. Both of his hands press on the edges of the table, clenching into fists. He looks as if he’s going to blow up.

“And, you know what – fuck!” he looks away, almost loses his containment. But he takes a deep breath and turns back to Jakob, manages, “You know when we arrived at the A&E, the nurse asked me how far along is Mum. I said I don’t know. And then she asked if I knew for how long Mum has been bleeding? Did I know any symptom Mum has displayed before this? I said I don’t know anything. I don’t even know my mum’s pregnant until she called me early in the morning and told me that she needs to get to the hospital – right now! She even…even called the fucking ambulance herself!” 

There, Jakob witnesses Otis burst into desperation and horrify and anger, a means of total catharsis. He knows that feeling, he knows that kind of pain. The exclusion and helplessness. 

“I feel like I’m an idiot, I know nothing about my mum! And she’s always like, ‘ _I’m okay,_ ’ ‘ _Nothing you should worry about,_ ’ What the fuck? She’s been in her 13 weeks don’t know how many days, it’s almost 14 weeks – 14 WEEKS! And for so fucking long I have no idea at all that she’s pregnant, and she’s not even going to tell me!” infuriated, Otis doesn’t even pause for a moment to breathe. “Oh, did you know she told the nurse she was actually feeling pain for a few days? But she keeps it with herself! She’s fucking keeping it with herself! And, where am I? At Eric’s! If I hadn’t felt like I really needed to go home yesterday, I would have left her alone in the house! And if she wasn’t bleeding so non-stop that she couldn’t hold it anymore, I bet she would have kept it with herself too! She won’t tell me anything, and she will keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding, and I won’t even know she’s getting so much hurt from you!”

Jakob knows that he shall say something, but when the last word of Otis hit him directly as if he’s being slapped right at the face, he holds back. It’s true, Jean was getting hurt by him. He wonders if his existence here is appropriate to Jean.

“And now, it’s clear enough that both of you have been putting yourselves and others around you in an extremely complicated and difficult situation that is caused by a highly irresponsible action!” Otis glances up, his blue eyes are revealing how ridiculous it can be. “Seriously, some midlife crisis trying to be resolved with the arrival of a baby?”

“Otis,” he understands his outrage and queries, but this is what he shall make clear of. “Your mother and I, we didn’t plan _this_.”

“Well, did you use any of the contraceptive methods? Condom? Contraceptive pill? Morning after pill –”

“We did, condom,” he interrupts quietly. “But then we…” and what can he say? 

“Didn’t?” Otis gives, an indissoluble anger glowing around him. “So, you’re telling me this is an unplanned pregnancy, yet you weren’t bothered to use contraception?” scornfully, he then provokes. “Given your intellectual capacity and my mum’s expertise, I’m so sure you two are absolutely aware of the consequences of unprotected sexual intercourse, which, one of those is exactly why my mum is lying there bleeding! Or, did you think a moment of pleasure is far more important than a 10-month of turbulent gestation? It’s riskier and more harmful when it comes to geriatric pregnancy – which I think you’re probably aware of by now – and, there are 18 years of parental responsibility one should provide to the child! Please, look at yourselves, both of you aren’t getting any younger and have kids who are almost adults! So, what the hell are all these things?”

“I didn’t expect all these things,” Jakob lifts his eyes, serious and composed. “Jean wasn’t expecting these, too.”

“Very well! Which is why we may link _this_ to the second point – my mum thought she wanted a long-term sex partner, and turned out, you knocked her up, and then? You walked away so freely,” scowling at Jakob, Otis claims. “I don’t know what happened so that you two have called things off; and maybe, _maybe_ , you really didn’t expect my mum would get pregnant, but! Even when you knew she’s pregnant, you. Still. Let. Her. Go. Of all circumstances, I can’t see any accountability of you!” he leans back to his chair, crossing his arms, more abomination than the rage. “You are not innocent here, Jakob.”

“Otis, your feelings, I understand. But there’re many things…they are not as easy as you think.”

“Are they? Please, educate me then. Tell me what are those _difficult things_ which can be easily understood by a teenager but not two fully functioning adults.” 

He breathes, speaking with enough patience. “Many of them are out of our controls.” 

“Out of control is absolutely not an excuse. We should have controls on the choice we’d make,” flashing a glance, obviously, Otis disagrees. “When you chose not to use protection when having sex, you should have expected.”

He nods attentively. “But, actually, I –”

“I thought you know what is called ‘responsibility’? Be a man! Why do you still have so many fucking excuses?”

“Otis –” 

“There, is _my mum_! She’s carrying your child, and she’s bleeding!” flipping out one of his hand, Otis is again out of his composure, completely resented. His eyes turn red straightaway. “You know she could have lost her life because of you!” 

It’s that moment all the eyes in the restaurant are shooting their confounds and detests to their table, but none of them is laying their eyes on this peculiar pair for more than five seconds. This is a hospital, this is where it all seems so normal, so conventional, as if the omnipresent pains and tears, happiness and sadness have penetrated all layers of emotion in a human. It doesn’t matter.

Except it does.

Intensely, Jakob sits on his chair, still crossing his arms over his chest as though he hasn’t moved a single inch since just now. He isn’t seeing this way – swallows all the pains and accepts what is given – this is not normal and not conventional; it shall not be seen this way. 

He won’t let Otis be the next of him.

“I had a vasectomy.” 

Otis scoffs, accusing with every despise. “Well, here’s another excuse?”

He knows Otis needs to vent out his dissatisfactions, all are the deepest fears that challenge his sanity. He understands his anger, his blame, his single-mindedness to rationalise the whole thing. But there are things Otis shall not bear, he deserves to be him and himself only. And he’s ready to give him that.

“I had a vasectomy,” Jakob repeats solemnly. “Which is why your mother and I…we didn’t use other protection,” a weary sigh, he winces, but continues, “Which is also why we didn’t expect there would be…a baby.”

The word “baby” stings, as the particular word is sharp enough to pierce his flesh. But he keeps it. When he looks at Otis, he watches his breaths become deeper. He knows Otis is listening.

“You had a vasectomy,” those reddened blue eyes are flickering with more lights, Otis hesitates, another deep breath. “You are being serious.”

Lowering his eyelids, Jakob nods quietly. 

“So…that, the baby is not yours?” Otis’ voice is shaking, he can’t help with the stammering. “You mean my mum h-has –” suddenly, all his facial features start squeezing. “Sh-she has _cheated_ on you?” 

Gazing at Otis, Jakob startles. There was once Jean briefly told him about her previous marriage with her ex-husband. They divorced after Otis witnessed his father was cheating on her. 

“Oh fuck…” puffing, Otis brings his palms to cover his eyes again, then slipping his fingers over his head and tugs his hair. “That’s why you…shit, all these make sense!”

It’s Jakob’s mistake. All of a sudden, he comes to realise Otis may have attributed the same thing to his mother. This is definitely not the way Otis shall see Jean. 

“No, it’s not like that,” he denies, voice level but firm. This is definitely not the way he shall see Jean too. “It’s me. I didn’t protect your mother.”

Fourteen weeks ago, they were still together. Speaking on their intimacy level, though they have been keeping their relationship behind the closed door at the very beginning, they were always close to each other physically, like, _very close_ , not to mention after the thing was brought to light. And a vasectomy failure after several years of the procedure is extremely rare, but no medical procedure is 100% unfailing. Which is why he has to do the semen analysis; all of these can be his own fault. He knows that. 

“I just realise it’s my responsibility. My vasectomy could go wrong, but still…I failed to protect Jean, not well enough,” Jakob tightens the embrace, holding himself. “So, you’re right, I’m not innocent. I hurt Jean.”

Otis pushes his hands through his hair, slowly moves out of his shield. He travels his gaze on Jakob again, still listening.

“But if…there’s any chance I can make redemption of these, protect Jean from all these pains,” eyeing Otis, he says sincerely. “I wish I can grab that chance.”

Though fury and frustration still fill in those watery eyes of Otis, at least there is now a glimmer of trust.

•

Leaning his head against the concrete wall, he glances at the clock. 3.44 pm.

Jakob lets out a weary breath, pulls himself together. Sitting on the left side of the 3-seated chair, he can’t really see those midwives who sit behind the desk at his opposite, but he knows they’re watching him. 

He has been sitting there for nearly three hours. 

Otis agreed to let him see Jean. Though that means he needs to wait until visiting hours, he’s still thankful for that. Waiting is another kind of suffering, seeing the minute hand passes each number and goes around again can make one insane. He has also raised some suspicions from the midwives. But the only thing he cares about now is Jean, she’s more than anything. And now there are only sixteen minutes to go. He can wait, he wants to see Jean. 

Just now, to kill some of his time, he started to look into his phone. Seven missed calls from Ola, other twenty-five message notifications popped up on his WhatsApp icon – two from one the customers that he was supposed to attend today, the others all from Ola. He should be grateful, for Ola was considerate enough to send him private messages instead of bombing in the family group chat where Olga is included. He didn’t want Olga to know about all these things yet, in fact, he wasn’t even sure how to respond to Ola now.

So, in the end, he typed, _still not seeing Jean, don’t worry_. And sent. 

_MAN WE RLY NEED TO TALK!!!_

Ola’s reply reached him almost instantly. All texts in capitals, clear enough to express her anxiety. He considered for a moment, then swiped away without giving a reply. For Ola was still working, there was actually not much they could talk about too. 

And he looked at the things about Jean’s condition as well, some medical articles and forum discussions, in English and some in Swedish. _**In the presence of a baby’s heartbeat on a scan, there is an 85% to 97% chance of your pregnancy continuing.**_ He lifted his head to give out a sigh, relieved, then looked down again. _**In most cases, with proper monitoring of the baby’s development and the mother’s health, the baby will survive a partial placental abruption. Emergency delivery is necessary if placenta completely detaches close to the due date.**_ If it happened any time after the third trimester, this was quite reassuring actually; if it happened any time before the third trimester, the survival rate of the baby…anyway, please don’t let Jean suffer from this. _**You are advised to try and get some rest over the next few days while bleeding continues.**_ He hoped the bleeding wouldn’t continue, blood loss is definitely not good for Jean and the baby. And he thought of Jean’s anaemia, he needs some dietary information on food that is rich in iron and other nutrients too. Jean needs good care during her pregnancy. Maybe he could try looking at the traditional Chinese herbs?

When the hands of the clock mark the visiting time, Jakob jumps from the chair immediately, stuffs his phone back into his pocket before walking to the midwife station at the opposite. A midwife stands up behind the desk, then hands him a visitor registration book. He notices it’s the same midwife when he came just now.

“You waited,” the midwife makes a simple comment when he’s writing his name.

He nods lightly with a polite smile, no intention of conversing, and resumes to fill in the book. After putting a sign at the _sign-in_ , he gently returns the book and pen to the midwife. 

“By the way, I’m Jean’s midwife,” she’s taking back the items from him, gives, “I’m Adrienne.”

“Oh…sorry, I didn’t know,” he blinks involuntarily. It gives him a surprise.

“It’s alright,” Adrienne stretches a smile. “Jean’s stable now, the bleeding and cramping have reduced significantly. If this will put you at ease before you go to see her.”

“Yeah,” it definitely puts him at ease. He isn’t sure how long Adrienne has been observing him, but since she’s willing to tell him about Jean, this can be a good sign. “Yeah, thank you.” 

Another midwife then leads him into the ward. She helps him to sanitise his hands and shows him the direction before leaving for another patient. Jean is allocated in a double-bedded bay at the bottom of the corridor. When he steps into the bay, there is only one bed at the right corner being occupied. Through the half-off curtain, he meets Jean’s raising eyes just in time. 

He thinks his heart has just been sliced.

Otis looks over his shoulder, then turns back to his mother. “Uh, I think I’ll just…leave you guys some space,” standing up from the chair aside, he tugs a bit at the bottom hem of his t-shirt, then walks toward the door. He gives Jakob a quiet glance when he walks by, and he nods in return. 

Finally, he moves, taking up all his strength and hopes to step forward. Every step seems so heavy, so slow, but he feels nothing. On the opposite side of overly calmed, he feels numb. 

He can feel Jean’s eyes that are locked with him, hearing her deeper breaths through his every closer step. Sitting up with the pillows placed at her back, she leans backwards, the back of her left hand is inserted with the cannula of the IV drip. She’s in an oversized hospital gown, the typical plain light blue, emphasising her terrifying paleness with dark circles beneath her swollen eyes. And she seems exhausted, almost lifeless; but her eyes are alert, darkening enough to twinkle. 

He stops at the bottom of her bed, unable to move any closer. He knows there is now a distance between them, a tremendous space that he can no longer cross over. Steadying himself, Jakob fixes his eyes on her, trying to study every detail of her features, to make sure she’s really okay. But when she moves, his eyes immediately shift to her hand and then her abdomen – beneath the cream-coloured fabric of the blanket, there is her hand gently palming the outline of her belly. He almost loses himself.

The little bump, though not obvious, but there it is – _a baby_. He catches his breath, staring at it. It’s with her a long while ago, why didn’t he notice before?

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she tilts up her chin lightly, voice lucid and coherent.

She said they would never meet each other again. His heart squeezes at her words that are echoing. She said it yesterday. 

“Otis called,” he gives.

“I’ve told him not to call you.”

“He just…called,” he says it again, when what he wants to do is to ask her if she’s still in pain. If she allows him to hold her hands. If she can let him take all the blames. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, because this is the only thing he can force out from his mouth.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she turns her head away, musing. “Potential miscarriage that occurs in the second trimester is usually related to an abnormality in the mother, not the baby, not the others. I didn’t pay enough attention to the symptoms. I didn’t take enough care of myself.”

“Jean, nobody wants it to happen.”

“I wanted it,” biting her bottom lip, she admits. “To be honest, when I knew I’m pregnant, I thought of abortion…” she breaths shakily, the steadiness turns to a painful icy gaze that looks into his eyes directly. “Because I thought I couldn’t do this _on my own_.”

Jean is never a woman that he’s afraid of or feels incapable of. Though she’s invariably outsmarted anyone he knows, she’s charming, sexy, lovely, competent, over-analytic, inappropriate, a little bit of ridiculous, and _wildly untameable_ , but he never sees her as complicated as she may have been seen. He sees her purely as Jean, just herself, even with the stare that she radiates with overvoltage, he can hold it without any difficulty. But this time, those pale blue eyes that are trapping with so many unspoken pains that he knows it’s him to cause these all – he can’t hold that gaze, he can’t look back. He wants to look away.

“I understand you might find it difficult to accept, but…” she pants, squeezing her eyes shut in anguish, her lips shiver. “This baby is yours, Jakob.”

Her words are landing unbearable pressure upon his shoulders, crushing him all at once. This is the weight of what he wants to trust, this is how it feels when a belief is torn apart. But he never expects it will be that heavy, it’s still aching the whole of him.

He can’t breathe. 

And she opens her eyes slowly, forcing herself to turn to him. “I never –” she has to pause, to breathe, to compose herself. Tears seem to stream down with the trace of the pattern on her cheeks. “I _never_ sleep with any other man during our relationship. Not even Remi.”

All of a sudden, the raw emotions wave him all over. For a moment, he thinks he may collapse. But he can’t fall. Not now, not here, not with Jean. 

So, he balls his hands into fists, fingernails embedding into the skin, forcefully rest aside his thighs to keep himself grounded, he nods at her. A dignified nod, with all the words he wants to speak, turns into tears that well up his eyes.

“And I hurt it so much…I hurt it so much. To a point I almost lost it,” lowering her head, the tears drop to the back of her hands in silence as she cups her belly with both her palms. Caressing the outline with her thumbs, her voice is quivering with guilt and regret. “I can’t hurt it anymore. I just can’t...”

The silence in the bay is thick and vicious. The curtain by her bed has blocked the sunbeams that flow through the window. The shadow falls all over them as they’re shrouded in the black cloud. Ceaseless gloomy.

Taking a deep breath, she lifts her head to meet his eyes, determined to hold back her vulnerability. “I want this baby,” finally, she says. 

Quietly, he nods again as he acknowledged. Something is sparking in his chest.

“Even though this baby has no father…I still want it.” 

And he’s stunned at that. It seems as if someone has just shot him right at his forehead, and he’s still pondering if he’s dead. He looks into her eyes as though he doesn’t understand every single word of hers.

“You’ve made yourself clear, I won’t request your participation,” raising her hand weakly to wipe away those shedding tears that gather beneath her eye bags, she mutters to him.

There was once, he squirmed in his seat, behind the desk there was his GP scribbling quickly on the referral form for his vasectomy procedure. He knew he would most likely be accepted because he was over 30 and had had children. And given his circumstance at the time, it seemed very reasonable. But the GP still looked at him sympathetically before she signed off, asking him if he was certain he didn’t want any more children. He remembered he nodded without hesitation, but he cried. 

“Jean…” emotions are all the same, though there are years apart, he still feels the same. “I –”

She turns her head away, breaking off from their meeting eyes. 

Standing there woodenly, he watches how Jean rejected him, just like many years ago when he sat with his GP across the desk. But he’s not crying, his body knows how to respond this time. He just stands there, quietly wondering. 

He wonders if she can give him time, for he has waited for hours, he just wanted to see her, laying his eyes on every inch of her, really _seeing_ her. He wonders if she allows him to collect the pieces of himself, then put together as those heartfelt words that he can properly tell.

“Jean,” he breathes deeply, trying to formulate the words that he shall speak but scorching his throat like the tongues of flame. “I never –”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, closing her eyes so that she can hold those tears before they fall. “But I…I really don’t want to see you here.”

She can’t give him time. The pain and blood and wound, these exhaustions she’s been through are more than enough. And he can’t do it too. He can’t tell her. Not when he knows he’s falling apart. 

So, he nods for one last time, moving up his feet. The movement brings him painful awareness of how stiff and heavy his muscles are becoming. And the tensions within him are tearing each other back and forth, aching as if the blood runs underneath the bruise.

He thinks he wants to protect her. But he realises the way he can always protect her is holding himself tighter, then walks away.

•

It’s the _strict regulations_ again: Otis wasn’t allowed to stay overnight at the ward with Jean. So, Jakob insisted on sending him home; and, of course, a big _NO_ , Otis refused as always. But now, both of them are sitting in his van. If it wasn’t Otis compromised at the end, Jakob would have wrestled him into the van.

Slouching against the seat in his tricolour jacket, Otis cups his jaw with his left hand, looking out from the window. For the whole journey, he retrieves his phone out of his pocket several times, then saying some flattened “wow” when Jakob tries to overtake the line or bents a bit too sharp for a corner, otherwise, he’s extremely quiet. It’s obvious, he refuses any kind of talk. And it’s obvious too that this boy is still very much angry.

Otis must still be angry with Jakob – he knows so, after all, he’s the one who hurt Jean. Probably, he’s still angry with Jean. But the thing that Jakob finds most unwanted, is Otis angry with himself.

There are things he really wants to talk to him. But he understands Otis has gone through a lot on just a single day by forcing himself to accept unfair things and to face the uncertainties that are suffering enough to put into words. He wonders how Otis can take in all of these.

When he pulls into the parking space before the red wooden house at the hillside, Jakob lets out a trembling breath. He thought he would never come back here again. 

“Thanks, bye,” Otis gives, then loosens his seatbelt straightaway.

“Otis,” Jakob stops him when he’s about to open the door. “You know, you can stay over my place if you’d like.”

Grudging, Otis tilts his head to look over his wing mirror, then turns to him with an inexplicable expression. Jakob frowns in confusion. Not long after, a young Black boy who is similar to Otis’ age appears out of nowhere and braces his arms over the window at Otis’ side. Pasting his clear face onto the glass to watch, his eyes grow so big that make Jakob flinch a little. 

Otis glances over his shoulder before turning to Jakob again, shrugging with a small grin. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

The boy at the window gives Jakob an apologetic smile, then waving his hands in a way too friendly. Jakob smiles lightly in return, gazing at Otis. “It’s good to have someone with you tonight.”

“Can I leave now?”

“Uh, before you leave,” he loosens his own seatbelt, starting. “There’s one thing I want you to know.”

Otis lifts his head, squeezing his shoulders in a sigh, then slouching back to the seat. Waiting.

“No matter what has happened today, it wasn’t your fault,” Jakob doesn’t want to give a lecture, he has no right to do so. But if he can at least resolve something with Otis as he really cares about him and Jean… “It’s unfair to you, but I think there must be a reason why Jean has been keeping all these from you. I hope you understand her.”

Otis hasn’t responded, just darting his attention at the front. But there is a sense of seriousness seeping through the atmosphere.

“And Jean…she loves you so much.”

“I know,” he manages quietly.

“You’re very brave, Otis, and very reliable,” Jakob glances through the windscreen before turning back to the boy, continues, “Seeing your mother being so ill, yet you need to handle so many things alone…it’s not easy, but you did very well.”

Otis finally gazes up, tightening his lips.

“And I want to say thank you,” taking a breath, his voice low but sincere. “Thank you for allowing me to see your mother. And thank you for staying with her all the time when…bad things happened.” 

Otis holds his gaze for a moment, then moves his eyes away stiffly. Perhaps it’s his way to express he’s noted. Perhaps he still needs some time to come around. Whatever it means, he hopes Otis to feel better, at least for tonight.

“So, can I leave now?” Otis asked again, discomfort.

“Just one more thing,” speaking softly, he leans against his door. “I heard you can visit from 9 am. What time do you want to be there?”

“9,” Otis quickly gives. “The earliest, the best.”

“Good, I’ll come to get you at 8.25.”

“What?” furrowing his brows, Otis chokes. His tone is elevated a bit. “Told you I could take the bus!”

He breathes out a sigh, watching Otis. “From your home to the hospital, it takes about 40 minutes. If you trust me, I can drive you there in 30 minutes,” slowly but clearly, he’s so patient to explain. “If you want to take the bus, you have to wait forever. Also, it will take you more than one hour –”

“Okay! Okay!” Otis interjects, then opens his door. “8.25 then!”

“You’ve got my number, right?” promptly, he asks.

Otis just rolls his eyes in response before slipping out from the passenger seat, then slamming the door shut. His friend has been waiting for him impatiently. He cradles Otis in his arms right after he gets him, immediately pressing his face into Otis’ ear in concerns. They’re walking towards the gate, sticking together, but Otis’ friend turns around and waves goodbye to Jakob before walking down the stairway. 

As the boys disappear from his sight, he shoves his hand into the pocket, grabbing his phone. Unlocks the screen, it’s 5 pm now, another half an hour to reach the close time of the fertility centre. He makes a call to the centre, informing the receptionist that he will come to collect his report before they close. When the call ended, he drops his phone to the passenger seat, taking a breath.

He wonders if each of the printed words on that paper that he’s going to read has been written in the stars.

•

“Dad!”

Ola’s voice strikes across the room when he just opens the door. His heart pounds.

He breathes, taking his time to move as slow as he can. Shutting the door, keeping the key, ambling along the corridor, finally making his way to the living room. Ola turns to him on the sofa, eyes widened, staring at him anxiously. And he gives her a small smile, saying _hi_ , not sure what to do otherwise.

“How’s Jean?” she’s frowning as a knot.

“Jean is okay,” he replies. Out of a sudden, he thinks he can lose all his strength. “She’s pregnant.”

“What? Are you serious?” Ola gasps, clamping her mouth with both hands. It takes her some time to recover. “T-then…the baby…” in extreme shock, she starts to tremble.

He tries to measure his breath, too shallow. “Baby is okay too.”

“Oh, thank God…” she squeezes her eyes, a huge relief. “And now where’s she? She’s discharged or what?”

He shakes his head gently. “She is…um, a bit severe. The doctor wants to keep her for a day or two.”

“So, are you going to see Jean tomorrow?”

Looking down at his feet, he nods.

“And for the other days?” 

He nods again, hesitantly. “I hope so,” if she’s willing to see him. 

Ola releases a deep sigh, then breaks off. She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at her father’s old desktop that stands among the hills of papers on his working desk. An antique. She should have persuaded him to throw it away before they were moving in. But she knows how much he likes to keep things – the old things, small and big, layers with dust over the years – and, what else? Memories. Those _holly_ tormented memories. 

“Dad, sit,” turning back to him, she commands.

He moves his legs a bit – just to lean back against the handrails of the staircase. “I don’t want.”

“Dad…” she gives him a look. “You seem not okay at all.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re okay? Seriously?” rolling her eyes, she asks. “Do you know you look super awful? Like shit.” 

“Language,” he remarks in stoned-face. “And I don’t like that word.”

“Dad, please,” softer, Ola says. “Whatever you want to share, I’m here, I’ll listen. As long as you _speak it out_ –” 

“Nothing to share.”

“Can you stop being a man-child now?”

He shrugs, giving in monotone. “I’m your pappa. Not a child.” 

“Gosh!” Ola unplugs her crossed arms entirely, then palms her forehead with one hand. She then raises her eyes, irritated. “You, refuse to talk, refuse to communicate, the only thing you’re most passionate about is ‘ _I’m okay_ ’! But from your head to your toes, every single cell of yours is screaming at people YOU ARE NOT OKAY!”

Impatiently, he glares at his devil little girl from the hell. “What do you want?”

“Talk. To. Me!” 

“Okay,” sighing, he compromises. He’s really exhausted to fight. “About what?”

“Insomnia,” Ola gives, without thinking twice. “Your depress –”

“Nope,” he moves his eyes away instantly. 

“Look, here you go again!” furrowing her brows, Ola shouts. “We’re always so open to each other, we talk through everything! I don’t understand, Dad, why can’t we talk about _these_?” she stretches her arms, claiming aloud. “Why do you just shut down yourself whenever we touch on this topic?”

He lifts his right hand to the air, a stop gesture hangs between them. “Ola, I don’t want to pick a fight again.”

“We pick a fight because you always, always, always, refuse to _talk_!” 

Even until now, his sister still likes to joke around about him as a child. She says he didn’t like to talk, not at all, just caging himself in his own painting world, to the point where their au pair started suspecting if he was autistic or facing any communication difficulties. Years after, _someone_ told him, if words were sealed, he was unreachable to those people who cared about him, which would make them really sad.

 _“And I’m one of those people,”_ said Maria.

Sometime after that, Ola comes to apologise first for yelling at him, trying to reduce the level of tension in the room. And he sighs, apologising as well.

“I don’t mean to make you and Olga worry…” he says, voice level and calm. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“But we aren’t children anymore, Dad. You’re not going to hurt us if you tell us the truth,” Ola prompts, more softly. “If you’re suffering a relapse, it’s okay…just, don’t keep it, we can’t see you –” she leaves it at that, taking a deep breath. “We need our father.”

Just because he’s the father, he has to keep himself grounded. He doesn’t need people to understand, he doesn’t want them to understand too. It’s because he loves them so much, each of them, he can’t bring himself up to present his bloody heart in both hands, say, _this is me, I have so much pain I think I can die_. How could he expect them to understand, to share the pain when he knows all things ended up the same? He’s so certain, he can’t get up this time if he ever gives in again – even it’s just one more fucking time – he’s been lucky enough to survive last time, he knows good thing won’t happen twice. 

He loves them, he wants to protect them, even if that means he needs to hold himself tight that seems so suffered to anyone else.

“Just give me some time,” he pleads. His face tightens, soundless emotions rail him all over, threatening to burn his eyes. “I’ll come around.”

“How long do you still need? You’ve been like this since you and Jean –”

“I’ll figure it out.” 

Ola sighs, weighing up. She doesn’t want to be pushy, of course, she knows her father’s having a hard time, but…“No matter how it goes between you and Jean, you have to talk to her, tell her _everything_ ,” she asserts, glancing up at her big man-child. “I know I have no right to say anything about your relationship, but, please, think about Jean. She’s not a stranger, she’s –” and then her eyes become somewhat watery, she bites her bottom lip. “She’s having your baby, Dad…”

He shifts away, avoiding her gaze, but he nods in silence. 

“And I hope you’ll go to see a therapist as well,” sniffing, she arches her back, manages, “If you don’t want any help from us, at least you need to help yourself.”

He remains silent for a while, then, he finally asks, “I’m tired, can I go back to my room now?” at this home, it seems he’s the child while his daughters are the parent. 

Ola scans through his face, considering it for a moment, then gives him a nod.

He moves up, swiftly walking up the staircases. “Uh, and –” suddenly, he pauses, lowering his body to meet Ola’s eyes through the gap of the handrails. “Can you please keep all these from your sister first? Jean’s still under monitoring, we need to wait until she’s fully recovered…and I –”

“I know,” Ola gives, perfectly understandable. “I won’t say anything to Olga. You’ll tell her yourself.”

He nods. “Okay, good,” and nods again. “Thanks.”

“Dad?” Ola stops him. “I know things are really difficult, but I…” she breaths, beaming a soft smile at the end. “I’m very happy. Yeah, kind of shock and nervous too…but I’m really happy for Jean and the baby.” 

A sharp twinge of something twists his ribs, but he manages a small smile before he leaves. 

Dragging himself back to his room has used up all the perseverance of his entire life. He closes the door behind him, lifts the latch, starts to shake. The pre-sign.

When the darkness returns, it all feels familiar. Those feelings that he’s unable to put into names anymore run through his blood like the poison that diffuses cell to cell, occupying him bit by bit, then swallowing him whole all at once. It’s not just pain, not just helplessness, it’s always much more than that. It’s like the dark matter, he can’t see it; sometimes, he doesn’t even feel it, but he’s being pulled to its direction over and over again. He doesn’t know what’s in there. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. The only thing he’s achingly aware of through every cycle of this, is he won’t survive the next time. But when he opens his eyes again, he always finds himself alive. And nothing has changed. And the next time still comes. 

Trembling, he staggers to the bed, his limbs are drained of energy that he may fall anytime. So, he clenches his teeth, just one more step, he struggles, just one last step. He turns over, staring blankly into the deep space of his room. Greyish, gloomy, but the sun is yet to set, the last golden shines of the day seep through the curtains, flooding in. He slumps against the bed base, tilting his head backwards to line with the edge of the bed as he’s shutting his eyes. 

Here is the moment he lets himself fall. 

Inside the pocket of his corduroy jacket, an envelope has been folded in a mess. As if he had brutally folded it into a size that is small enough to stuff into his pocket, small enough to pretend it isn’t there. 

He’s overwhelmed with misery. He thinks of Jean, he thinks of the little bump in her hands. And to the most suffering is, he thinks of Maria. 

He opens his eyes slowly, slipping his left hand into the pocket to grip the envelope. He takes it out, opens it, eyes travelling through those professional terminologies and figures that he can’t even understand. But he frowns, fixing his eyes at the clinical comments down there.

 _“Statistically, the chance is extremely slim, but it isn’t impossible at all…”_ the andrologist said, pointing those figures of his report on the screen, the rest of the words struck into his ears like a bang. _“Your results came back positive, Mr Nyman. Your vasectomy has proved to be a failure.”_

Once, he thought the way he could love someone was to share the pain; but now, him alone swallows them all. 

He tosses the paper onto the floor. It’s hitting the surface lightly, but why does he still feel that heavy? Tilting his head back to the bed, his eyes are fixing at the ceiling fan again. In the silence, the warming liquids overflow from the corners of his eyes. 

Finally, he allows himself to drown in the tears that are bottled up for the whole day. 

_Father_. 

The heaviness sticks in his chest, twinging when he breathes. 

The word is heavy because it’s filled with the mixture of pain and tears from worry and responsibility as a father, and so much love and laughter that he knows he’ll be grateful for the rest of his life. Fatherhood is heavy. But he will carry it, even when the painful joy aches deep down in his bones, he still wants to carry it. 

Because he’s the _father_. Because Jean gives him a miracle.

Time will pass, tomorrow will come, he knows he can’t sleep. But this time, he closes his eyes. 

When the tears fall unsteadily, there brackets a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> -  
> This chapter is named "Unsteady" because everyone is basically unsteady (including BB Jeankob and me 😭)...  
> -  
> This fic wouldn't update as regular as TMOTBH because I'm still writing, so if I take too long to update, I'm sorry about that! Btw, I've set up a [Tumblr](https://lool-gilliana.tumblr.com) (finally), please feel free to find me there!  
> -  
> Any comment would be appreciated! And sorry for the grammatical errors and whatnot. See ya!


	2. Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may listen to [" _Fallen_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1xi5HkqDH4) by Gert Taberner when reading this chapter  
> -  
> And thanks again @helmifransiina and @surefinewhatev4 on Twitter for helping me to check on my Swedish sentence!

When he wakes up, the clock at his nightstand is mocking at him: 3 am. 

It doesn’t matter. He gets up from the bed, making his way to the bathroom en suite. Splashing the cold water over his face, off the tap. Then, he catches himself from the mirror before pulling his towel from the hook. He stares at it; the water droplets are streaming down his face. It reminds him of Ola when she was still little, the way she counted the raindrops that rolled down on the car window.

Shockingly, there may be a little human who is going to do the same. The mere thought of this sparks some twinkling little joy in his chest. But something is pulling him back, he isn’t brave enough to smile again.

In a glass bowl, Jakob mashes the cut steamed purple sweet potato into a frenzy. At the side of the kitchen island, the old iPad he got from Olga is placed there, playing the video of a famous food Youtuber on making the purple sweet potato omelette sandwich. Its today’s breakfast. He thinks he may add on some meat floss that he used to order online from the Asian Supermarket as his personalised addition to the recipe. He values breakfast remarkably, even when the world is going to end the next second, one shall never skip for breakfast. 

He thinks this is as important as a cup of tea of those Brits. 

Not far from him, he hears the approaching footsteps and lifts his gaze. Ola walks into the kitchen without announcement. She lowers her body before the island, then presses her elbows on the surface and cups her face, watching.

“Morning to you too,” he says, a soft smile.

“What’s for breakfast?” 

She speaks in Swedish. This is rare, he raises an eyebrow. In bilingual family, children usually speak with the language they feel more comfortable. In their case, Jakob speaks Swedish, Ola prefers to speak English while Olga speaks both languages equally, depends on who’s she speaking with. 

“Sandwich,” he gives, pushing the bowl to Ola across the island. “Could you?” 

She moves up, taking the bowl and fork out of his hands and starts mashing like him. He turns over, getting out three pieces of eggs that he has soaked in a bowl of water, then cracks them into another bowl, beating with a fork.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” oh, now she’s switching to English mode.

He spent the rest of his night in the studio. Not quite progressive, still a lot to catch up, but at least painting gave him peace at the moment. And he watched the sunrise again, sitting on the stool with his early smoothie. He made an avocado one this time. 

“I did,” he adds some water into the bowl. “Just woke up a little bit early,” he pulls the rosemary out from the spice rack, along with the fine salt and pepper powder, sprinkling them into the eggs as well. 

“Are you going to see Jean?” 

Whipping the egg again, he considers. _Are you going to see Jean?_ Of course, he wants to see her so desperately. But will it be more accurate if, says, _is Jean willing to see you?_

“They have specific visiting hours for other visitors,” he replies. “But I’m gonna send Otis there first. He can visit from 9.”

“Okay,” Ola grunts. “I wish I can go to see Jean tooo…”

“You got to work.”

“Well, thanks for your kindly reminder,” she pulls a face. “And I happen to know you’re not so happy to let me see Jean.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re afraid,” narrowing her gaze, Ola says confidently. “You asked her to meet up at the coffee shop, because I was at home at the time, right?”

 _This demon from hell_ …he swallows, then manages, “So, now, you’re telling me you’ve met Jean.”

“Briefly met,” shrugging, Ola admits. “But don’t worry. I didn’t tell her things _you don’t like_.” 

He glances over his shoulder before ambling towards the stove. “Are you done?”

Ola pushes the bowl to her opposite. “Done,” the purple sweet potato is all mashed, same goes to their story.

Putting the eggs bowl beside the unsalted butter at the countertop, he heats up the empty pan. This is going to take two to three minutes. He's delicate in cooking, especially in making the omelette. A bad omelette will ruin the day.

Ola pauses the streaming video on his iPad, then walks around the island. Leaning against the edge of the counter, she folds her arms. “I haven’t asked about your thought,” she initiates. “Given you looked like shit yesterday, no offence, I think I’d just save that part for today.”

So, another story begins. 

“What thought?” 

“About Jean and the baby,” steadily, she gives. “What are you going to do?”

“It doesn’t matter on what I want to do,” he takes a breath, measuring his words carefully. “It’s about Jean. It’s what Jean wants to do that matters.”

“Does Jean want to get back together with you?”

Yes, she did. And now, she will probably – or, mostly, surely – refuse. 

So, he remains silent at that. The pain is squeezing his heart, pumping the aches into his blood through the arteries and veins. And he unconsciously touches the edge of the pan, the heat knocks him out of his own head. He quickly comes to alert, composing himself, then adds a teaspoon of softened unsalted butter into the pan.

“Don’t tell me you’re not sure, I absolutely won’t take that,” Ola glances at the back of her father. “You two have met up, sure you’ve talked about this?”

“We did…” picking up a basting brush, he spreads the melted butter around the pan. “But I hurt Jean,” he manages quietly. “I hurt her very badly.”

“Oh, sorry…”

“And –” he tightens his lips before continuing. “And mostly because of me…she almost lost the baby, and possibly, her own life too,” he breathes deeply – so deep so that he can really breathe. “I don’t think she will forgive me.”

He pours the eggs to the centre of the pan with calm. He then moves the pan around to stir the eggs with calm. But it’s so painful. Admitting his guilty aloud is so painful. Acknowledging the fact is so painful. 

Ola raises her head, letting out a loose sigh, then looks down at his back again. “I don’t think it’s Jean, it’s you. You just can’t forgive yourself,” hesitantly, she parts her lips. “Did Jean remind you of the time when Mamma passed away?”

“I think you better leave me now,” he puts down the pan, letting the eggs cook. “If you stay here, I'm going to ruin this. You disrupt my feng shui.”

“ _Fart_ the feng shui, man!” frowning defiantly, Ola braces herself tighter. “That's why you must talk to Jean like I said yesterday.”

“Jean needs rest now. Not good for her if I tell her –”

“You said you’d come around, where’s your effort then?”

“I also said, I need some time,” he turns to her, a bit annoyed. “Some time isn’t mean today or tomorrow, some time means _some time_.”

They’re holding each other’s gazes for a while, neither is giving way to the other. Until Ola tilts her head, _man, your omelette_ , only then he turns around to check his eggs. The curds have already formed, and thank goodness, it’s not burnt. He lifts the pan, tilting it around to let the excess liquid pour off the top of the curds and into the pan.

“I know you, Dad, I know you must want to do something,” pursing her lips, Ola then prompts. “This whole thing is about you too…seriously, what’s your thought about Jean and the baby?”

He uses a spatula to shape the edge, then moving around to help shape the edge into a round. “I want them healthy,” he heaves a deep breath, staring at the eggs’ mixture on his pan. Waiting. “I want them happy.”

 _That’s right! Let the omelette sit for ten long seconds so it can develop a proper outer crust_. It seems he can hear the voice of that Youtuber in his mind. _Don’t worry, your patience will be rewarded_. 

“Are you happy, Dad?” Ola asks, furrowing her brows. 

He breathes again, then shaking the pan gently to make sure the omelette is free of the pan. It’s time to finish it. He turns off the stove, raises the far edge of the pan before snapping it back towards himself. He folds the omelette with the spatula, then requesting a plate.

Ola moves off from the counter, turning over to get a plate out of the drawer. She rubs it with a tablecloth and places it on the island.

He lubes the pan with a brief brushing of butter, then walks over to the island. Changing his grip on the handle, he slides the omelette on to the plate, eases the fold over, and there – it’s perfect, unexpectedly perfect. 

“Dem-dem,” his daughter simulates the sound of notification of his phone. “Reminder: you didn’t answer my question.”

He puts the pan into the sink, where it hisses at him. And he walks back toward Ola, they stand side by side, staring at the omelette in silence. The scent of the omelette mingles with their morning breaths, behind him, the jasmine tea that he has brewed in the teapot is fragrant and sweet. He has a loaf of white bread and a perfect omelette, and the mashed purple sweet potato is prepared, what else does he still feel afraid of?

“If there’s somewhere farther than the moon,” as his heart is pounding, he whispers. “I’m over that.” 

Ola gazes up at him, sending a soft punch to his muscular arm. “Aww, man…” she chuckles. “Over the moon isn’t enough, huh?”

He laughs a bit at that, but he dares not to smile too hard. The tenderness is twinging, the hope is still miserably sacred. And he knows that fear is always conditioned by joyous memories, he thinks Ola knows it too.

“And…” it’s painful to love someone, he knows, but… “I hope I’m the one who makes them healthy and happy.” 

Ola looks at him for a moment, then nods firmly with a gratified smile. She presses her temple into her father’s upper arm, brushing her hand over his back. 

“Go on, then,” she says softly, a small encouragement it is.

•

Otis leans against the wrought iron fences when Jakob approaches, kicking the pebbles under his feet.

He waits for him, which is good, though Jakob has got his number from Ola in advance in case he needed to call him. In his tricolour jacket again, Otis wears more decent than yesterday – a striped polo shirt and a pair of brown corduroy trousers. He takes his regular backpack with him while an embroidered dark red holdall is placed near to his feet. 

It could be for Jean. Jakob thinks about that when he puts his van into reverse. He can tell the vintage style of that holdall is _very Jean_. 

Otis puts the holdall at the back seat before he opens the door of the passenger seat. “What’s this?” he stares at the blue Tupperware container that is occupied his place, then glances up at Jakob.

“Breakfast,” he gives. “Sandwich. I hope you like purple sweet potato.”

“Not really. And I’ve eaten,” picking up the container, Otis climbs up the seat, then stuffs it into his backpack. “But thanks,” he drops the backpack to the footwell. 

“Where’s your friend?”

“Eric?” he fastens the seatbelt, looking at Jakob in confusion. “He’s gone already.”

“I could send him home.”

“He got a bike.”

And both of them advert their eyes away. Jakob is knocking his fingers over the steering wheel; Otis twitches uncomfortably, fixing his eyes at the empty driveway. The silence has taken its seat with them for a moment.

“Morning,” finally, Jakob manages.

“Why don’t you just start driving?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, reaching for the gear quickly, a little embarrassed. “Start driving.” 

Jakob can swear to God, he has tried his best not to impress Otis with his driving skills. However, it seems Otis is indeed _impressed_ again – he grips his left hand tightly at the grab handle, another hand is curling around his seatbelt. As if Jakob is going to fetch him to hell any time, he presses his back against the seat, chin up, “wow, wow, wow” and “watch out!” have slipped out from his mouth several times now. Suddenly, something clicks in Jakob’s mind – yesterday, Otis’ extreme quietness was due to his rejection to communicate or he was actually worried about his own life seating in his van? 

Jakob bets it’s both.

“You know you don’t have to drive that fast,” Otis gives, swallowing. “Although on time is late, but not that I must be there at 9.”

“Let us talk, then,” he suggests. “Distract my attention on speeding,” he glances up at Otis, letting out some soft laughs.

Otis’ eyes are widened, seriousness washes over his face. “It’s absolutely not a good idea, Jakob. Driving needs full attention.”

“I’m trying to be humour,” he says, slowing down. He almost reaches his unbearable slowing point.

“Apparently it’s not funny.”

“Are you always being that…” what is the most suitable word to say? Rigid? Sensitive? Neurotic? Easy-to-freak-out? “Not relaxed?” 

Otis doesn’t answer, but Jakob can feel his intense glare over him. 

Faintly, he smiles again. “I said ‘let us talk’, I actually mean it,” he brings it up as he turns to the left.

“Talk what?”

“Are you feeling better today?”

Otis lets go of the grab handle, crossing his arms before his chest. “I’m excellent,” he purses his lips almost instantly.

Jakob makes a quick scan on Otis after glancing at his rear-view mirror. Obviously, he’s not excellent at all. Otis is somehow an open book.

“Otis,” inhaling, he gives softly. “You can always be honest to me.” 

“I’m honest.”

“You sure?”

“Couldn’t be so sure.”

“Then why do you still look angry?”

“Urgh, okay, fine!” Otis turns to him, spitting out. “I’m not angry, just th-that you made me feel uncomfortable! Satisfied now?”

“Why?” 

“Because!” he yells, but when he runs out of words, he groans. He moves up his hands, covers his face entirely, muttering something Jakob can’t understand.

“If you need some time…”

“No!” Otis puts down his hands immediately, breathing. “Look, you don’t have to do…all these things, all these!”

Nodding, he takes in respectfully, then processes his words, only to admit, “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

Otis squeezes his eyes before he starts to groan again. “Okay, what I mean is, you don’t have to do _all these things_ – visiting Mum, fetching me back and forth, making me what potato breakfast…”

“Purple sweet potato sandwich,” Jakob adds peacefully. “With some omelette slices and meat floss…ah, and mayonnaise.”

“Whatever!” Otis tugs his hair, then dropping his hands to his laps. “You don’t have to do these, you know, you –” he breathes again, trying to convey his words in a composure manner. “You don’t have the obligation to take care of me because of my mum. You don’t even have to feel responsible to her – okay, I’m sorry about the ‘responsible’ thing I said yesterday – but you had the vasectomy, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?” 

“The baby is mine,” his heart is heavy, but he manages. “I’ve tested. I’m positive.”

Otis stuns a few seconds, he is unprepared of Jakob’s straightforward. In fact, he even starts to regret insulting Jakob publicly on having unprotected sex with his mother. He can talk to his peers freely with their sex problems, then dissects, concludes, and advises, which they’re all circulating psychologically that he sees as sciences. But, when it comes to his mother’s ex-boyfriend with his unusually upheld sensible…

“Okay…good,” a hiccup. “Very well, fantastic, congra – no, not congratulations,” awkward, Otis leans back against the seat heavily. 

“Okay, thank you,” Jakob chuckles lightly. “But you still feel…uncomfortable?”

“It’s because, obviously, you don’t want any more children,” Otis sighs, his eyes are searching from the window. “If you don’t want to commit to a life that you’ve been so determined not to create…” he pauses, he thinks there is a need to express in a way where Jakob can easily understand. So, he gives calmly, “I mean, if you don’t want to get back together with my mum, and if you don’t want this baby, it’s fine. After all, in our country – in case you don’t aware – mothers automatically have full parental responsibility for her child from birth, but not all fathers are obligated. Especially when you two are not married.” 

Jakob starts to understand what is _the whole point_ that Otis has referred to. The whole point is, the cracks under the skin that are leaving unhealed around the edges continue to tear apart; the whole point is, it’s easy to peel off the surface of a relationship as it is never that as adherent as he thought. Or, rather, there is no longer a protection layer of that relationship. It’s been ripped off by himself.

“Mum wants the baby. And I’ll take care of her, of course, and the baby – I’ll take care of them. I’ll do whatever I need to do as the only man in this family,” Otis inhales deeply, holding it, the hands on his lap ball into fists that are so determined. “I’m mentally prepared, not fully, but I’ll get there don't worry; and I'll be physically prepared, though I need to go to school, I'll do my best. And…if I start preparing now, A-Level shouldn’t be a problem next year, I can balance my study and family life with a newborn. And though I might not attend the antenatal classes with Mum, don’t think it’s appropriate for me to attend…but! I’ll learn by myself, from Youtube or books or whatever it comes…”

He’s listening with concentration. He’s nodding at every line that Otis has spoken. But somehow, he blinks uncomfortably, his grips over the steering wheel become firmer.

“The conclusion is, I’ll provide all I can to Mum and the baby. It is okay without you,” finally, Otis lets out the breath. He then turns to Jakob, opening his mouth, not for the arsehole inquire again but a genuine and kind question – “So, do you understand _the whole point_ now?”

“Yeah, understood,” of course, he understands now. He even shows it by the small smile that stretches on his lips. “And I’m sure you can take care of your mum and the baby well,” but having a new life in a family isn’t an easy thing. It isn’t about nighttime feeding or sterilising bottles or changing diapers. It isn’t something one can learn from Youtube or books, maybe some, but not all. It’s about building love and trust between caregivers and the baby, then building connection, building future, building a life. “But why do you think I would stay out from their lives?”

“Because I feel wrong,” Otis breathes again, scanning through Jakob carefully. “I feel wrong if we bind you into this relationship forcefully, or, even when you think you should bear with this responsibility. It’s very unfair to you. Which…which makes me feel so, so uncomfortable,” he hesitates, gazing down on his lap. The fists, the tool that one uses to grab for the fate to make choices. “You should have the right to make your own choice. The choice that’s not _out of control_.” 

Giving that Otis is quite wild these particular days, this comes as a surprise to Jakob. When he catches the boy’s eyes as he tilts his head slightly to check his wing mirror, he nods at him with a soft smile. Yes, he understands Otis’ discomfort. Yes, he appreciates his concerns. Yes, he nods because he wants to tell him he’s okay. 

“You’re very thoughtful,” slowing down to a stop at a red light, he says. “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Otis replies, a little contrite. “And I want to…apologise, to you. It’s very impolite of me yesterday,” he sighs, adding, “And just now.” 

“I think we get even with each other now, hm?”

Otis shrugs, they smile to each other before moving their eyes away for their personal moment to appreciate the understanding. But Jakob muses, tapping his fingers over the steering wheel as he's counting the heartbeat. He lost count again.

“Your mother is having a baby for a while,” he says, staring at the red light. “It must be very stressful and difficult for her…when she was all alone.”

“You know what? I was thinking back about these past few weeks. Actually, I might have noticed something, but…I don’t know, I just always missed the hints,” Otis responds with a sigh. “Jesus, how did she manage to do that?”

“So, let us give her supports and cares, for whatever she wants to do.” 

Otis nods, then breathing in.

“And…she might not want me. I will respect that,” quietly and gently, he gives. “But the _choice_ I’d want to make included her, and all of her.”

Oddly, when a heart is coming clean, all those fears and pains are faltering.

As he turns to Otis, he realises he’s watching him. “Would you allow me with that, Otis?” he asks. 

The boy holds his gaze for a moment, but there is no answer. Even after he breaks off as the van starts to move again, he hasn’t given Jakob an answer.

The rest of their journey remains in silence because they know the next words that are going to fill in the blank between them are so important. Neither of them wants to build an impetuous decision upon the woman they love. 

By the time Jakob pulls into the hospital’s car park, it starts to drizzle. He wants to get down and gets Otis a spare umbrella from the boot, but the boy refuses, as he insists that his jacket is waterproof.

“Are you still coming to see Mum later?” Otis picks up his backpack from the footwell, ready to leave.

“Yes, I want to come.”

Otis looks up at him, a grimace. “I’ll ask her to try to be nicer today, don’t kick you out again after seeing you less than fifteen minutes while you actually waited for more than three hours.”

Recalling what has happened yesterday, he merely nods and smiles. 

“And you know…there’s a lot you need to make up for her,” Otis says, finally cracking a grin of agreement. “Prove me she’s the choice you’d want to make.”

As Otis slips out from the passenger seat and getting the holdall from the back seat in quick, Jakob stares at the rear-view mirror. He beams.

•

Jean is asleep when he gets into the bay.

Jakob sees Otis first, where the boy turns around as he hears him, placing his index finger vertically over his lips. Acknowledging that with a small nod, Jakob tries to make his steps gentler with his clumsy big feet and heavy shoes.

“How’s Jean doing?” he asks quietly, settling himself in a chair that is too small for him next to Otis.

“No more bleeding, no more cramping. I’d say she’s great.” 

“Good,” he can literally feel his heart bounces a beat and settles again. “How long does she sleep?”

“She’s been sleeping for three hours now, she really is exhausted,” Otis says, stuffing his Switch to the back of his chair. “I brought her MacBook, she hasn't even opened it to check for the emails yet.”

After the drizzling morning, it’s a big sunny day coming ahead. At 4 pm, the sun is still warm and bright, the shines are filtering through the alabaster blinds on the big window of the bay, splendidly and pleasantly intense. A good tease of spring. But Otis has drawn the curtains to prevent more light so that Jean is undisturbed. And now, both of them sit at the corner, gazing at the sleeping Jean. 

“And she vomited, once, after lunch,” Otis tilts his head to the direction of the bedside drawer, a small pile of sick bags lies on top of that. “She’s compelled to bed rest now, the doctor suggests it takes a few days. During this time, unless she needs to use the bathroom, she should avoid long walks or stand for a long period of time. A midwife gave her sick bags so that she wouldn’t need to get to the bathroom so frequent if she wanted to throw up again.”

Jakob nods silently, stretching his long legs from the chair before he lays his eyes on Jean again. He wonders how every now and then people start realising they’re making mistake, regretfully hoping for a chance to turn time back, so another choice would be made? What if, says, he never asked Jean to leave? What if he didn’t fall for her? What if they never met each other? What if he didn’t move here? What if he just didn’t survive from the moment there? 

“I’ve read some research from the Internet, bed rest actually doesn't affect the outcome. If a miscarriage meant to happen, it would happen anyway,” Otis murmurs, pinching his knuckles. “I don’t want Mum to go through this.” 

What if, he chose to trust Jean and trust himself again? 

“She’ll be fine,” he pulls out his hand, giving Otis’ shoulder a gentle pat. “Everything will be fine,” he knows he’s actually talking to himself.

And they chat a little, mostly about Jean. Otis helps Jean with her emergent arrangement of upcoming clients’ appointments. Apparently, she needs to take some time off from work – “But some of them couldn't wait, you know, sexual problems could be very stressful. I'll try to ask Mum if she’s okay seeing her clients with Zoom or Skype.” – he intends to reschedule all physical appointments after Jean has her follow-up appointment next week so that she has enough time for proper rest. And he mentions about her discharge tomorrow, Jakob tries to make some inputs but interrupted by a ward hostess that popping up to send Jean a thermos. And when she left, Otis excuses himself to get some air outside, Jakob shrugs and keeps his legs back to let Otis pass by, thinking that maybe he will just save his words for later.

Watching Jean sleeps peacefully, her chest rises and falls in rhythmic, he takes in the scene with his heart comes unwavering. Perhaps he can as well get some rest; he can feel the heaviness of his eyelids – but maybe not really sleeping, for he doesn’t want to snore – just tilting his head backwards, then shutting his eyes, hypnotising himself that he can at least relax for a while. 

Once, his therapist told him to be patient with himself. He is, he always is, but he has lost in the bowel of darkness somehow. With all the things he never says out loud, this time, he promises to come around. Though working up with actions requires time, this is where all the pains shall come to an end. The minutes continue to tick by. He thinks slowly he will be getting there, just like the moment before now.

He is startled awake by some noises. He shakes a bit, opening his eyes like a shot, but the lamp that mounted into the ceiling makes him squint. And he realises his mouth is parted; he must have been dragging himself into slumber. Breathing deeply, he brings his hand up to block the light, then moves down to rub the corner of his mouth as he adjusts himself from the seat.

And Jean is staring at him.

He shudders. “Jean?” as his hand rubs over the back of his neck, he narrows his eyes, the soreness there is killing him. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she replies, taking enormous effort to move herself up on her forearms. “Where’s Otis?”

“Um, somewhere out there,” he sits straighter, gazing at her. “Do you need anything?”

“Bathroom.”

She curls up slowly, letting out a moan when she pulls away the blanket, still struggles to get up by herself. Jakob quickly stands up and steps forward, but she raises her hand up to stop him.

“I can manage,” she makes a glance at him before letting down her feet over the side of the bed. A deep breath. 

He lowers his eyes, looking at the small feet that insulated with a pair of funky woollen socks hang above the ground. He squats down quietly, picks up the blue slippers on the floor and helps her to put on. 

“Thanks,” Jean mutters, staggering out of the bed. 

And he catches her just in time when he’s standing up – one arm encircling her lower back, another hand grabbing her shoulder – worrying that she will fall. He can feel her body quivers slightly in his embrace. 

He waits for a split second. “Do you need my help, Jean?”

She clears her throat, ducking her head. “I can walk, thank you very much,” awkwardly, she releases herself from him, making her way to the bathroom at a slow pace.

The attached bathroom isn’t far from her bed, and considered the size of a double-bedded bay, walking across the room isn’t a big problem. But he still follows her at the back, watching carefully on her every step. He thinks she knows it, but she doesn’t say anything, which he sees it as acquiescence.

After seeing Jean eases herself into the bathroom, he slides his hands into the pockets and waits in the doorway. Outside the window, the world is still as luminous as it can be; looking down at his own feet, he has traced her footprints. 

He listens to the sound from the bathroom, toilet flushing, tap water running…until the moment it stops. Then, it’s the sound of an opening door. He turns around, only to find the bathroom door is opened ajar.

“Um…Jakob?” she’s standing behind the crack of the door, looking at him nervously.

Immediately, he lets out his hands and walks over. “Yeah?” he leans over the doorframe, looking at her with concerns. His body fills up the room as if he has expanded a shield around her world, guarding her. 

“Beside my bed, uh, there's a drawer…” staring at his chest then looking up, her voice trails off. 

He frowns a little, tilting down his head to move closer. He can see a layer of pink resurfaces beneath her pale skin, in contrast with those blue eyes that are so vigilant. And she cringes there, like a terrified baby.

“Inside the drawer…there’re some sanitary towels,” pursing her lips, she hesitates, then says under her breath, “Could you please get one for me?”

 _Okay_ , he nods without thinking twice, _sanitary towels_. _Pads_. _Menstrual pads_. He knows what that is, it’s for ladies – wait a second. “Are you bleeding again?” out of the sudden, his forehead cracks into numerous lines.

“Um, yes. Just…light spotting,” she answers uncomfortably, then, she looks into his eyes again. “Could you…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he steps back, a sudden consciousness shoots into his nerves like electricity. “Will be quick.”

He opens the drawer, a few pieces of sanitary towels sitting quietly in the corner. _Did she just blush?_ He takes out the sanitary towels, studying. _Why did she blush?_ Without the packaging, he can only sort out the pads and panty liners. And light spotting. For light spotting, maybe a panty liner will do…the thing is, did _he_ blush?

He still remembers the day when Olga’s class teacher made him a call in the middle of school time, he thought Olga was in trouble – _“Uh, no, Mr Nyman, Olga isn’t in trouble, just that…”_ – just that, Olga found out she just had her first period, and she had no one else to turn to. In the end, it was her teacher that gave her a sanitary towel that saved her from embarrassment. So, first thing after school, he brought the girls to the supermarket – one fourteen, one eleven – and having an open-and-detailed-yet-embarrassing-also-always-interrupted-by-Olga’s informative inputs-talk about the purpose of their trip on the way, then grouping at the aisle of sanitary products and carrying out complex research about different pads in different brands, of course, with some help from Jakob’s sister in Sweden through phone, _“Nej, Jakob, tamponger är inte lämplig för unga tjejer!”_

And now, he knows exactly which brand his girls prefer to use, he knows about wings or without wings, days use or night use, heavy flow or light flow…so, did he blush? He doesn’t think so. Ever since that _field-trip day_ and being a single father for several years now, he has dealt with things even stranger and more awkward, bringing Jean a sanitary towel isn’t a thing he will feel embarrassed of.

“I got you this, okay?” handing her the pad that seems the thickest through the door gap, he gives. “Just in case…the flow increases.”

“That’ll do, thank you,” she says quietly, then closing the door. 

When the door is opened again, he moves forwards, extending his hand without hesitation. And – without hesitation too – Jean takes his hand, slowly steps out from the bathroom. His right arm rings tenderly across her waist from the back to support her, and her hand in his is freezing, so he gives it a gentle squeeze, hoping that the warmth will overflow. They take things slow, but it seems the way back to the bed is shorter than when they left. 

He helps her to get into the bed before walking to her bedside drawer. Near to the sick bags, he picks up a glass from the tray, pouring some hot water out of the thermos that given by the ward hostess. She’s leaning against the pillows, too tired to hold herself upright, but she manages to give a softer _thanks_ as she takes the glass from him. After taking a sip, she rests the glass on her laps, grabbing it with both hands in an attempt to keep herself warm. And he roams over, finally settling himself at the corner end of her bed. Her eyes are darting towards him instantly. 

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, gazing softly at the sprinkle of freckles over her nose bridge and cheeks. He never tells her how much he likes to watch her bare face every morning, then shuts his eyes and pretending he just awakes as she opens her eyes with those little sleepy blinks. 

“A bit dizzy,” her tone is flippant. She raises her glass for another sip.

Seeing how struggling is she in movement, it doesn’t seem _a bit_ to him. “Anaemic?”

“They’ve given me iron infusion.”

He watches the back of her left hand, though she needs no further IV infusion at the moment, the cannula hasn’t removed, leaving there a bruise. And he notices a stain of dark blue mark on her arm too, possibly the glorious sign of the blood draws, another bruise. 

“Are you in pain?”

She stares at him, but her hand strokes over her belly unconsciously. “Manageable.” 

At that, his lips curve into an aching smile. Though not heavy, but she’s bleeding again, and she’s still feeling pain, how could she tell him that it’s _manageable_? 

“I’m worried, Jean,” slightly leaning against the footboard, he makes a deeper breath. “I think we better call someone to check on you?”

“There’s no need to.”

“Are you made of steel?” he asks. “Like Superman, Iron Man…Iron Lady?”

“The _Iron Lady_ isn’t in the same category,” she corrects, then frowning. “Why?”

“Because you’re tough,” and because she’s so tough to let him see her withstanding all these pains and discomforts alone, yet he can’t do anything for her. It makes him heartache.

She breathes, lifting her head a bit. “I am.” 

Her little proud face amuses him, but he suppresses his smile. Eyeing on the call button cord that lies beside her headboard, he considers. “I seriously think I should get a midwife here.”

“No, Jakob,” leaning forward, her face falls flat, and she starts protesting. “I can assure you I’m doing good, just…just a very minimal discomfort, nothing serious. I’ve been feeling far better than yesterday.”

Yesterday, she could have developed more severe complication if things were getting worse. Today, she says she can walk, and just _a very minimal_ discomfort. And tomorrow, how about tomorrow? Jean tends to bear everything with herself. She cares about people, but she rarely allows others to care about her. 

Suddenly, he can feel Otis again. The exclusion.

“I heard…you could be discharged tomorrow?” 

Flickering her eyes, her voice drops back to her normalcy. “It’s scheduled in the afternoon tentatively.”

“Okay,” softly, he nods. “I’ll come to pick you up.”

“I don’t want you to do this,” she glances up at him, grabbing her glass tighter. “You don’t have to do this.”

He comes to aware that Otis also told him the same thing in the morning. “Someone has to pick you up,” he gives naturally. 

“I’ll figure it out by myself.”

“Maybe you’re tough like the Superman or Iron Man, but you can’t fly, Jean.” 

“But you need to work.”

Gazing at her restless little fingers run over her belly, trying to calm herself, that tickles him. “I can arrange my time, I’m flexible.”

She inhales heavily, pondering. Before she can launch another round of protestation again, Jakob smiles at her, which makes her stun straightaway.

“Jean, just let me come over, and pick you up,” he says it ever so patient, so gentle, his glowing sky-eyes pin at the contour of her rounded abdomen. “I want to see _you two_ arrive home safely.” 

Jean tries to speak something, but she parts her lips only to purse them into a fine line. 

For a while, the only sound in the bay is their breaths, deep and steady, they’re just staring at each other. In the end, she exhales shakily, leaning back to the pillows. But it doesn’t mean that she has withdrawn; she’s still holding the gaze at him though runs out of words for a _no_.

And then, Otis comes back to the bay that makes their gazes break. He’s enjoying a small pack of M&M’s from the vending machine.

“Oh, hi?” he stops there when he notices something strange between them two, then directs his eyes to Jean. “Hey, Mum, you’re awake.” 

“Otis, I’ll come to collect your mother tomorrow,” turning around, Jakob tells him. “What do you say?”

“Oh, great,” he says, stuffing a few M&M’s into his mouth. “I was thinking about the same thing actually.”

Jakob turns back to Jean with a soft grin, glittering with his small victory. And she shifts her eyes away, letting out a trembling sigh with her cheeks expanded and deflated. She’s cute when she’s doing that, has someone ever told her this? 

At that very moment, he has decided: he'll be going on. Even when he’s crawling on his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for reading and I'm so so so so so HAPPY today!  
> -  
> This is because something happened just now that makes me believe that Jeankob is going to be so warm and sweet, no matter how they're going to end up in the show (or here). I legit couldn't function properly just now then I thought an update on this happy day would be great! Anyway, I considered this chapter as slow-burnt sweet, I hope you all enjoyed the reading :D  
> -  
> Any comment would be appreciated! Cheers! xoxo


	3. Delicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may listen to [" _Delicate_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRPwFAoQwxc) by Damien Rice when reading this chapter  
> -  
>  **WARNING:** This chapter is angst sweet, it might make you feel uncomfortable.  
> -  
> And this chapter included some medical conditions where I certainly didn't have enough medical knowledge about the relevant disease. I'd like to apologise in advance if there was misinformation about the disease in the story.

He’s sitting on the chair at the corner like yesterday. Upright, hands palm on his knees, waiting.

When he asked Jean what he could help, she said, _stay there_ , so he stays there, watching her packs for discharge. But he really doesn’t want her to move here and there, so when she was getting changed in the bathroom, he helped her to clear all her belongings out of the drawer, place her holdall and handbag on the bed, double-check the drawer and make sure there was nothing left, then went back to his seat and _stayed there_. Other than giving him a look as she came back to her bed, Jean couldn’t complain anyway. 

Because Otis has registered him as Jean’s collector at the midwife station, Jakob granted special access to the maternity ward in the morning to prepare Jean for discharge. Jean’s midwife – Adrienne – and a female doctor came to see her before his arrival and agreed that Jean might leave the hospital before the estimated time. And now, Jean sits over the side of the bed with her ankles crossed, folding her clothes and stuffs them into the holdall. She puts on a floral dress; the bottom is long enough to pass her knees. At some point, he thinks it’s illusional, or maybe it’s the cutting of the dress, because Jean’s belly definitely looks more apparent than any other day. 

He ponders, for a moment. Seeing the pronounce belly that is sheltering his unborn child makes him realise that, when one loves something truly in heart, it becomes everything in his eyes. 

Some loose baby cries catch Jakob’s attention from the side. Before the sunrise, another bed in the bay is occupied by a new mother barely in her thirties, Jean has been her neighbour for several hours. He can hear some soft conversing leaking through the curtains over the time he’s sitting there. By the time the husband pulls their curtains apart and realises that Jean’s curtains have actually drawn apart for some time, he apologises for the disturbance. 

“It is okay,” Jakob looks up, giving a soft smile. “Congratulations.” 

“Oh, thank you!” a delightful expression washes over the husband’s tired face. He steps back to the bed, sitting in, with a newborn held tightly in his wife’s arms. “Prepare for discharge?”

“Yeah.” 

“Great,” he makes a remark politely. “When’s your wife due?”

This simple question just strikes him. Things are: he isn’t lucky enough, for Jean isn’t his wife; and secondly, except for knowing that Jean will be reaching her full 14-week tomorrow and what they’re carrying is actually a miracle, he has no idea at all about this baby. Does he need to start mentally counting with the due date now?

“Mid-October,” quietly, Jean answers on his behalf. 

He turns to her; surprises and amusement are flickering in his eyes. But she shifts away before he can catch hers.

“Oh, a Libra baby. It’s good,” the husband says.

Gazing at Jean, he lowers his voice purposefully, not wanting to show he’s overjoyed. “I’m a Libra,” he gives, while the excitement is in fact glowing around him as a LED signboard is running the line on his forehead: _my baby is gonna share the same sign with me, I’m so fucking happy_.

“You must be thrilled, I guess,” the husband continues. “I mean, having a baby is the most thrilling thing to couples. How wonderful!”

Jakob glances back, then nods agreeably. He’s even _over somewhere farther than the moon_.

The wife lifts her eyes from her baby, joining the conversation. “This is our first. And this is your…”

He hides a smile. “Fourth.” 

From the corners of his eyes, he can see Jean twitches an eyebrow. 

“Wow, congratulations too!” the husband can’t hide his surprises. He looks from Jakob to Jean and back again, grinning. “You’re a lucky man.” 

“Thank you,” he says, gazing up at Jean again. “I’m very lucky indeed.”

And this time, she raises her eyes and meeting his.

•

They settle down quietly on the 3-seated chair opposite the midwife station, waiting to sign off the required paperwork for discharge.

Jakob occupies the same seat as he did two days ago, while Jean sits in the middle, interlacing her fingers over the handbag on her laps. It’s the only thing that she’s allowed to take by herself as Jakob refuses to let her carry the holdall. He’s very insisting and she simply doesn’t want to argue now.

For Jean’s convenience, Adrienne brings over the paperwork and join them in the chairs. She helps Jean to remove her patient ID band on her wrist.

“A discharge letter will be sent to your GP. It’s about your stay in the hospital,” as Jean shoves into the handbag for her glasses, Adrienne gives, then hands over an envelope. “And here’s for your copy.” 

Jean is still busying to find her glasses. Jakob leans forward from his seat, collecting the envelope from the midwife instead.

“Thanks,” Jean says quietly, no specify whom it’s given to.

Later, she brushes off Adrienne’s advice to take a wheelchair when heading to the car park. _I really can walk_ , she says, refusing to be made a fuss over. Adrienne exchanges a look with Jakob; where he shrugs, shaking his head a little with his lips curved down.

“You might still experience some bleeding in the next few days, it’s normal. But if it becomes heavier with bright red, or if you feel any more intense abdominal pain, you’ll need to call me or go to your GP immediately,” gazing at Jean, Adrienne then admonishes. “You must not wait until you couldn’t withstand only then to call for help, like this time. It could be very dangerous, Jean.”

“Well, lesson learnt,” she makes a small grimace at that, then diverts her attention back to the paperwork.

As Jean dips down her head, Adrienne catches Jakob’s eyes again. _Tough girl_ , she mouths. Registering her words, he nods with a you-are-so-right-expression and leans back to his chair.

Jean is hunching her shoulders a bit, he notices that. His fingers itch painfully. He wants to touch her, he wants to massage her muscles there, he wants to trace his fingertips along with her jacquard kimono in green where he can feel the pattern of the embroidery like he once did that. They’re peacocks weaving in gold, his hands clutched over them as he held her spinning across his living room; he removed it impatiently, unzipped her jumpsuit so that he could finally kiss her skin that flamed in pink. On his sofa, she moaned softly, then parted her knees to him. And now, he clenches his hands into fists to avoid this kind of thinking. How ironic.

“Well, I think that’s all,” after Jean signing off the last form, the midwife announces. 

Jean hands back everything to her. “Thank you so much, Adrienne,” she says.

“Before we see each other again, you need to take it easy, okay?” Adrienne rises from her seat, pressing an emphasise. “And _rest a lot_.”

“I will,” she smiles gently.

Jakob stretches a smile as well, giving Adrienne a nod before she leaves. When he turns back to Jean, she’s eyeing her own belly. Her right thumb is drawing a small circle there, as if she’s denoting a symbol of ties, a promise yet a secret between the baby and her. Realising herself is being observed, she gazes up, which triggers a lovingly curve on his lips.

“I’ll take that,” she says, darting her eyes towards the envelope on his laps.

“Oh,” he hands back her discharge letter and watches her putting it into her handbag. Then, he rises, holding out his left arm to her, a soft grin. “Shall we?” 

She looks at his arm and takes a breath. At last, she nods silently, sliding her right hand into his arm to make herself stand up. She slings her handbag over her left shoulder, with one hand, and he leans closer to help her adjust the strap, then turns to pick up her holdall on the floor. 

After days of profound horrifies and worries, they’re finally heading home. Before they leave, Jakob nods again at the ward manager and midwives in the midwife station as an expression of gratitude for looking after Jean. And now, he’ll be the one who takes care of her and their baby.

Though no more words are exchanging, Jean’s hands grasp tightly around his arm for the rest of their journey.

•

He never drives that slow, that makes the way back home seems so long. But for the first time in his life, he’s so grateful for this moment he never thinks of.

A small space, him and her, physically shared but emotionally vague. How many times have love and hatred put on their show about life in this small, shared place? At here, husband and wife are fighting about a missed left turn; at here, the heaviness of separations and betrayals that grows in hearts is easily lifted; at here, a couple in the elevated mood decides to pull over that turns make out to make love; at here, people get to hold hands for the first time and pretend it’s just that they have accidentally touched each other. 

At here, he wonders how the crack will stop tearing apart when the top layer of a relationship has been taken off and now exposed. She called him _Mr Builder_ , of all people, he should know how to fix things better. 

He tries to speak to her while driving, just casual talk, but she just looks cool and doesn’t even bother to open her mouth. Apparently, Jean isn’t in the _Jean mode_ today. She’s less energetic and quieter than ever, which makes sense given her conditions. However, here’s the thing that stinging – the closer they get to her house, the more she withdraws herself from him. He can feel it clearly, though their physical distance remains unchanged. He makes some efforts to rationalise her behaviour, giving reasons to puzzle out specific meanings, but along the way, his intuition tells him the opposite. 

By the time he turns to check on her again, she’s fallen asleep. Her body shrinks against the seat while her head tilts towards the window, truly isolated herself from him in their shared space. And her arms fold loosely around her lower abdomen, like a shield, a defencing gesture. 

They reach her house longer than he expected. He parks his van in front of the gate, trying to make the walking distance as short as possible for her. Then, he loosens his seatbelt, turning side to look at her. Her hair is longer now, the loose curves fall over her shoulder. He has an urge to tuck them behind her ear, so that he can dip down to kiss her neck, feeling the pulse palpitates beneath her skin.

Eventually, he leans over, just to reach her knee for a tender pat.

“Jean,” he whispers. “We’ve arrived.” 

She jolts awake, shooting her eyes at him while orienting herself in the seat. Moving her glare away almost instantly, she takes a few deep breathes to steady herself, which makes him feel even more sorry to wake her up.

He leans back, glancing at her. “Just stay put, let me –”

 _Let me open your door_. _Let me carry your bags_. _Let me hold your hands_. These simple sentences just get trapped in his throat, for she already unfastened her seatbelt and grabbed her handbag in the next second. 

“Thanks for driving me. Drive safely,” then, she opens the door and gets herself out of the van. In such a glimpse, she’s gone, just like that.

He dazes a moment before letting out some sneering at himself. Finally, and consciously, it validates the goddamn inferences that are making up his mind. He breathes out, then gets down from his vehicle. He walks over from the front of the van and finds Jean striving to open the door of the back seat. Obviously, an unsuccessful attempt. 

“This door doesn’t like people who left without saying goodbye,” he walks closer, pressing his body against the passenger seat door.

Jean looks both irritated and defeated. But when he approaches, she arches her back slightly, crossing her arms and taking a step backwards. 

He moves forward, turning himself to the door. “Bye-bye,” he says, very seriously, then opens the door and slides it aside easily. Her holdall sits at the back seat, looking at them innocently. He turns back to her, giving her a smirk. “See.”

“Ha, interesting.” 

“You really think…” he hesitates for a second, then asks finally. “I would just finish here?” 

She holds her chin up, narrowing her glare when she shrugs. “Well, you’ve seen us arrived home safely, haven’t you?” 

He tilts down his head to chuckle, but sighs heavily afterwards. “Let me carry your thing inside,” he lifts his gaze, deep and assertive. “No _no_. Let us go inside and get you to rest quickly.” 

Breathing shakily, Jean unfolds her arms, dropping them to her side. Determined Jakob is serious. Serious Jakob is dominant. Dominant Jakob is strikingly unavoidable in any way and at any time. “Fine,” so, she mutters, then walks away.

Watching her walks down the stairway by herself is really terrifying, Jakob can’t move his eyes from Jean at any second. But she’s careful, she holds to the handrails all the time and makes herself really slow. With that, he can’t help himself from looping what Adrienne has mouthed to him earlier: _tough girl_. Jean is made of steel, Jean is fiercely independent, Jean can stand in line with any superheroes he knows – Jean, the _Tough Girl_ – he couldn’t be more agreed. 

In the living room, Otis has waited for them. He jumps out of the sofa as they walk in.

“Hi, Mum!” he moves forward, tugging the bottom hem of his shirt. “Finally home. Yay?” a little rigidly, he stretches his arms to his mother.

She smiles, eventually, even when it’s just a weary smile. “Yay,” she replies, then reaching his arms, hugging him.

Otis lowers his posture and holds her carefully, keeping himself from pressing her too hard. “Welcome home, Mum.” 

“Yeah…” she closes her eyes for a moment to cherish this. When she pulls back, her hands just can’t let go of him, so she rubs his arms, squeezing there gently. 

“And you look better today.” 

“Thank you,” she nods. “Glad to hear that.” 

“Oh, hi, Jakob,” when Otis notices Jakob at the back, he gives hurriedly. “Thanks for sending Mum home,” he smiles. 

And he smiles back. “It’s my job.” 

Jean shifts her head at that. But she doesn’t look at him, just letting loose a sigh. “Well, I’d need to get bed now,” she says, dropping her hands from Otis and heading upstairs without turning back. 

After watching her disappears from the staircase completely, Otis turns to Jakob, crossing his arms. “How is she today?” he asks, his fingers tap rhythmically over his elbows.

It takes Jakob a few seconds to understand that he’s actually talking about how Jean is treating him today.

“She’s…um, not friendly,” he admits.

“Mhm, I can see that,” curving his lips a little, Otis narrows his eyes and walks towards him. The way he looks at him has mixed up with sympathy. “Don’t give up.”

The boy’s words make him chuckle. “Okay,” he then throws the holdall over the back of his shoulder, tilting his head. “I think I better get Jean this.” 

Otis smirks and takes a step aside to make way for him.

“Uh, and…” Jakob stops at the base of the staircase, turning over. “I’ve been thinking these days. There’s something I want to discuss with you,” he tells Otis. “But I need to tell your mother first.”

“Oh, okay, sure,” Otis shrugs, seems to agree without hesitation. “We could talk later. Maybe after you get back down here.”

Lately, when he can’t sleep, he thinks. He thinks about this, about that. He thinks about how their lives twining, how their blood tying. Things come in a way too fast, overwhelming shock, but he still needs to figure a way out. Sometimes, things get sorted out; and sometimes, they don’t. When they don’t, they come as the nightmare and depression, hovering the nights where he can’t escape. As he’s always been trapped.

He waits right in front of her room, staring at the crack of the door that she doesn’t shut tight. _It’s been a while_ , as if a flow of voice in the room has seeped through the gap and whispering to him, _but no one would sure if you’re welcome around_. He hesitates, then bringing up his spare hand to knock at the door. 

“Jean, I will be coming in,” before she can fill in the reply with rejection, he quickly adds, “It’s your bag.”

And then, he pushes the ajar door gently and finds her lifting her face from burying in her palms. On the bed, she sits over the side he used to sleep, her hands fall in her laps immediately. At her back, the golden shine of the afternoon sun stream through her window, bathing her. As she holds herself upright, she blocks the rays of the bright lights. And now, the luminous dust seems to radiate from her, as if she’s an angel, stretching the moment out of this room to eternity. 

By the door, he stands still. A glimpse of her light falls into his eyes. “You okay, Jean?” 

“Yes,” adjusting herself, she gazes down to the holdall on his hand. “I’d need that.”

He gives a nod and steps into her room, putting down the holdall near to her feet. While he catches the pattern of sunlight on her Bohemian carpet, he realises how much he misses this place, this breath, this daylight. He always likes her room, the sense of lively and hopeful, none of these he can ever feel in his own.

Because it’s being with her, those senses get to resurface to his atmosphere.

“Thank you,” she gives, then ducking her head, a signal of dismissal. 

He steps back, leaving her some space to catch her breaths. “There’s something I want to do. I need to tell you first.”

She glances up, frowning slightly in confusion.

“I want to take care of you,” he looks into her pale blue eyes, putting his words together. “During your bed rest, I will come and cook for you.”

“I can take care of myself,” her eyebrows are tying deeper now. 

“You can’t, Jean, not at the moment,” gently, he shakes his head, opposing. “Doctor doesn’t want you to walk up and down, so, you can’t order takeaway, not convenient. I also can’t let you eat those spaghetti boxes or whatever instant food in your fridge, those food no good nutrients.”

“I think you forgot I have a son,” she breathes unsteadily. “I’m sure Otis could help.”

“Next Monday, Otis will be starting school. And he doesn’t cook.”

She clutches her arms over her abdomen, glaring at him intensely. He knows what she wants to say.

“Please don’t say _no_ , Jean,” he gives quietly, eyeing her belly beneath her arms. “It’s not just for you.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, breathing out. “Seriously, you need to stop there, Jakob,” she lifts her eyelids, gazing at him again. “We are not _your job_.”

“But I want to take care of you.”

This time, she scoffs, as if this is the funniest thing she ever hears. “You don’t have to take care of me,” she says with her tone turns firm and icy. “Or the baby.”

He sighs, staring at her steadily. “I couldn’t let you do this on your own.”

“So, is this what you intend to do now? Co-parenting?”

“Co-parenting,” he repeats. The word is slippery, rolling over his teeth. “You think I’d want a co-parenting?”

“Well, is there any better reason to explain the conflicted behaviours that you’ve displayed?” she asks, then managing with a scornful curve encloses at the corners of her lips. “Three days ago, you told me you couldn’t give yourself to me, that you couldn’t trust me. And, obviously, you weren’t willing to be a father again. And now, you’re attempting to persuade me the opposite with your actions and languages. It is ambivalent for the alteration of your intention in such a short period of time, but given the current prospect, I’d believe that there might have certain possibilities that could address your inconsistent behaviours.”

She’s analysing him. She’s reasoning his behaviours as he did. “What possibilities?” he asks calmly.

“The possibilities that are closely related to your personality. The sense of responsibility, the feeling of guilt and sympathy, or perhaps, your protective instincts as a father has been triggered,” she unclutches her arms, clasping her hands together, as though she has already decided that he isn’t worth enough to stand there again. “If I wasn’t having a threatened miscarriage, I’m quite certain you wouldn’t be here.”

She flickers her eyelashes and looks into him, and he is suddenly leaning against her sink and listens to her interpretation about him again – the moment he got to know how she actually saw him all along, the moment he realised he has decided to like her even though she has seen him wrong. 

“What would you do…” he likes her, even before they really knew each other. “If, all of these are actually more than just what you’ve said?”

She muses, measuring his words seriously. “I would ask you to stop anything,” this is what she gives him. “I don’t want you to bind yourself in a co-parenting relationship with me if a child isn’t what you want. And I certainly won’t accept you, if all of these are… _more than_ just co-parenting,” somehow, her eyes become steamy, she blinks. “You’ve told me what you want. And I refuse you to forcefully engage in a relationship with me because of a baby.”

For a split second, he thinks he may lose himself all over again. He adverts his eyes away, taking a few more steps backwards, to make sure both of them will be safe from the distance. As he brings himself up to look into her once more, his tongue seems to be pinned by the weight of the question. “Because…you don’t want me anymore?” 

And a single tear slides out from her left eye, she shuts her eyelids, but he watches the tear travelling down her cheek like the road map. It knows where to go, it’s destinated. “Because I want you to be happy,” when she opens her eyes and gazing up right at him, her voice softer. “I like you, Jakob. But I couldn’t allow myself to accept this kind of relationship that is made up of residual guilty, sympathy, or obligation…that I know you wouldn’t be happy. This is my _boundary_.” 

It sounds like a relief, though, for she still likes him. The wrenching kind of joy. But simultaneously, a twinge of something crushes the pit of his stomach. The hollow feeling fills up his chest again, almost blocking his airway. 

“In a relationship, we might make mistakes, but we never owe each other,” she says, pursing her lips for a while, as if there are words that she doesn’t want to speak out loud. “Even though I’m having your baby, you owe me nothing, Jakob,” she cracks a sad smile in the end, watching him. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done to us these few days, and even the time before…now, you’re free to go.” 

What she doesn’t know, is that the smile of hers has tattooed on his heart. But that smile sloughs off her face, and the tears start springing into her eyes again. It’s that moment he comes to realise, no matter how hard he tries to confine the pains within him and persuade himself it’s okay, no one will need to comprehend, there is some part of him that always wishes for someone to understand.

He turns away with no more word. 

A few more steps, he can fly out of this room and never come back. A few more steps, he can still be the Jakob that she knows before – he likes her, he hurts her, and nothing more. A few more steps, he won’t need to remember how their worlds have ever collided like the stars and why they burn up their fuels so quick and die in the end, quietly fading away. 

But the stars could take millions of years to die. He thinks of Van Gogh, he thinks of the stars that painted in his tranquil night – he wonders if the painter had known, by the time he watched those stars twinkling in the night sky out of his window in the asylum, the universe had already made the rules – because love is something so scarce, it is traced in the stars, to live in one’s forever from the millions of years. 

When he reaches her door, he stands there, just to raise his hand to close the door before them. He can hear their combined breaths become deeper, breaking the silence, and he turns around slowly. Facing her again, he watches her looking at him solemnly, her tears are sitting, but can he catch them before falling?

“Jean,” he whispers her name. The pain draws every line of his feature tightly. “I want to tell you a story.”

“What story?”

He can tell her everything, but he never thinks of this. “The story of…an unhappy man.” 

_Once upon a time, there was an unhappy man. He left home to find happiness, and he found it – he met a happy woman who became his happy wife; they had two lovely daughters and they were living a happy life. The man thought, he could live like this in the rest of his life._

_One day, his wife gave him a present. It was not any special occasion, just an ordinary day where they had breakfast across the table. The man looked at the present with suspicion, it was small, it had purple ribbon; and when he shook it near to his ear, he could hear nothing but his wife’s snickers. He pulled the ribbon, tearing the wrapping paper. He opened the box, a small stick was lying in there and whispered – it was a pregnancy test, it was positive – they were going to have their third child. Suddenly, the ordinary day became the happiest day of his life. He cried happily and hugging his wife. The man thought, he could live a happier life than his life before._

_They went to the first scan together. When seeing their baby, they cried again together. However, the sonographer was in sour-faced. “What’s wrong?” asked the man. The sonographer told them their baby was healthy and normal, but there was something wrong with the mother – a giant shadow, right ovary, a cyst. Therefore, they went for further check-ups, they had gone through a lot of tests, they told themselves it could be nothing. And two weeks later, the results were out: the tumour was malignant, the wife had ovarian cancer. The doctor recommended her to have a hysterectomy as soon as possible. If they chose to wait until their baby’s arrival, it might cost the mother’s life. The man thought, when both of the lives were so well-loved, how could one decide?_

_In the end, the man and his wife decided to terminate the pregnancy and underwent the treatment. The man had no time to grief, he still had his wife to worry. But the wife was so sad, sadness surrounded her in a way the man had never seen. The man thought, the wife had shared her happy life with him, he should be able to share her painful life with her._

_So, the man went for a vasectomy. He accompanied her to go through every phase of treatment. They never told their daughters anything about the baby, because protecting them from more sadness and pains was the most important thing to the man and his wife. They were keeping in faith, but the disease had already eaten the wife, and eventually, she died. She left the man with many happy memories and their two lovely daughters, but she had gone and there was always an empty hole, achingly deep and would not be cured. The man thought, this was the life they created together, although it was painful, he would live with it alone, and forever._

“So…the man lived unhappily ever after, again,” he breathes. “The end.”

As he lays his eyes on Jean again, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t move, just staring back right at him. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes aren’t that as anticipated as before. For a moment, he thinks she has gone – her soul leaves her body, slowly and delicately, floating into elsewhere.

“When you told me you’re pregnant, I was shocked…so shocked. I didn’t know how I should react,” he isn’t sure whether it’s enough inside him to make every single word he utters creep across the air between them, but he tries. “I shouldn’t let you go…I’m sorry, Jean.”

She still stares at him quietly, but her lips start trembling. The hands that she clasps so tight, he can see the pressure under her skin that makes her knuckles go white.

“I said, I could not have more children…” and his voice cracks, and his heart is now twinging with sharp pain. “But I never say…I _don’t want_ them…”

The bubbles of silence break under her lips at that second. Her face turns red, her body is shaking as she begins to sob. Those tears that she holds tight are now streaming down from her pale blue eyes. She shut them, bringing up her hand, presses her fingertips on the eyelids and tries to suppress the tears, but it seems useless. 

Across the years, he has learnt that in whatever form, in whatever name, the water runs non-stop. The blood runs through the blood vessels, telling one is still breathing; the wounded heart won’t stop bleeding, because no one can stop missing; the river down to her house is streaming, finding its way to join the ocean when the time reaches. Even when it comes to the rain that falls to the earth, it kisses the ground, but then it evaporates in a way that no one can see, back into the embrace of clouds.

And tears. And how about the tears? 

He can’t feel his limbs. When he moves his legs, he stumbles, like walking in the space. Weightless. But his heart feels heavy, pounding painfully with every second he uses to take the step reaching her. He stops before her, crouching down with one knee, his eyes are gluing her entirely. Steadying his own shaky breathes, he brings up his hands, finally, curling around the tiny shoulders that are shivering. 

She flinches a bit when he touches her, but she doesn’t move away, she doesn’t reject him again. This time, she stays. Dropping her hand, her reddened eyes slit open, looking into his sad blue eyes.

He rubs his thumbs over the tips of her shoulders, the gentle circle, like she did to her belly in the hospital. Once, twice, trice…and he moves his hands up, cupping her face. The tears won’t stop, too. “Don’t cry, Jean,” he coos softly, at last, he can tell her this when he sees her crying. His thumbs are stroking her cheeks back and forth, brush away the trails of tears and painful thoughts. “Shhh, don’t cry, hm? You know when you cry…baby will worry about you too.”

Her features start squeezing again when he mentions about the baby, but she holds on and nods. As their breaths interwind to form a rhythm, she lifts her right hand to cover his. It’s always warm when their skins meet, whoever at top whoever beneath. 

God, he misses this so much. Not even inches, he can lean forward and kiss her lips. But in his palms, her tears are hot that can burn the creases of his skin. In his eyes, tears are searing. In his heart, he thinks he’s falling.

He’s holding her because he’s holding himself too, as he tries to trust her that she’ll be his anchor, that he’ll be able to put the pieces of himself back together. But he can’t stop himself to wonder, if he lost his footing on the ground and started to fall, if she knew he’s brewing inside the darkness’ bowel, if she saw him burying himself with sorrow, would she still be here, holding his hand as he’s holding hers? 

He wanted to ask. Until he realises, he has spoken out loud. 

“Would I what?” she asks quietly, her eyelashes are fluttering with the glint beads of tears.

Such words will string hard on too delicate a beating heart. He can’t do that to her. Not now. Not today.

“Would you…” so, he says, stretching a half-smile that isn’t entirely deceit. “Would you allow me to come over, to cook for you, to take care of you?”

Letting out a loose of soft chuckles, she nods again. The genial smile isn’t only tattooed on his heart, but it’s parenthesised by his hands now.

“Good, I’ll talk to Otis about this,” drying her tears for one last time, he caresses her gently. She is his baby too.

“I want soup,” she manages, eyeing at the collar of his flannel shirt then up into his eyes. “I want the soup you made for me when I was sick.”

The _it’s just soup_. The _it was a nice touch soup_.

Laughing lightly at that, he nods. “Okay. Soup for dinner, then,” he pulls out from her, dropping both his hands at her side on the bed, looking at her tenderly. “Now, you need to rest.”

She purses her lips; her mind is absently settling. And he presses the bed with his palms to get himself up, smiling again when he realises her eyes are travelling with his every movement. 

“Jakob.”

She calls him as he opens the door. He looks over from his shoulder and waits. But she says nothing, just gazing at him with her watery eyes that are full of words.

“I know,” he says, comforting her with a soft curve on his lips. 

Leaving her room, he holds it to the last moment. He cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter!  
> -  
> Tbh, I have many worries about this chapter because it made me feel as sorrow as Jakob in the end. But since Jean has made herself clear, and Jakob revealed why he reacted so unanticipated when knowing Jean's pregnant (in the previous fic), they will find each other again I'm sure, just take things slow~slow~  
> -  
> Any comment would be appreciated! And I'm really grateful to receive your comments when I'm missing Jean and Jakob each and every day, it's really warmth 😭  
> See you in next chapter!


	4. Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may listen to [" _Anchor_ "](https://youtu.be/OmKAn8rNbKg) by Novo Amor when reading this chapter

For several nights, he has actually slept through a bit longer. 

Though he’ll still awake in the dead of night and it’s agonisingly hard for him to go back to sleep, though nothing much has lessened what he feels inside, at least he can actually sleep a bit longer now.

Perhaps, Jean really is his remedy. 

The other night, he even dreamt about her. She was nursing a baby at her terrace; he was looking at them from the back. He could see the clouds, the river and the trees, he could hear Jean sang softly to the baby. Though the details vanished as soon as he awoke, and sure enough, he wouldn’t remember much about this dream as time passed through the fingers, but here’s a feeling that lasted for so long: in that dream, for the first time in a long time, he felt grounding. 

For Jakob, he has resolved himself from what has happened in the last few days. He gains his freely access to the Milburn’s again, but he’s certain that Jean doesn’t “boyfriend” him back, _yet_. Oddly, he doesn’t feel any uncomfortable about that. He might want a real relationship instead of a vague, purely sexual, uncommitted relationship that is founded with the so-called _pheromones_ , but this time, he wants to take things slow. He thinks Jean has thought the same too, for she doesn’t mention anything about their relationship, and she doesn’t bring up the story of _the unhappy man _ever since he told her. He takes that as her thoughtful consideration, he’s thankful for that, maybe, he even feels more relief than the former. And now, he and Jean are friendly, they’re having a baby, and he definitely knows how he feels towards Jean – what he needs to do is taking his own pace and slowly working on it.__

____

While Otis still at home these few days, he only needs to take charge of lunch and dinner. He won’t mind coming over twice a day for cooking, but if he has to work, he’ll make sure to cook extra when he’s there or dropping off with some meal boxes that he has cooked at home, and Otis will be taking care the rest. Well, he takes charge of Jean’s incessantly snack time too. He prepares her with a box of healthy snacks and crackers on top of her bedside table in case she gets hungry anytime, and he’s happy to restock the snack box every one or two days as it finishes off so quickly. And fruit must be served to Jean two times per day, he has this peculiar gratification when seeing fruits have taken up space in her fridge where it used to be occupied by those spaghetti boxes. Anyway, he has written down the must-do-list when taking care of Jean and attached it to the fridge, even Otis is required to execute these tasks accordingly. And – absolutely not ridiculous at all – he even sets an alarm that is named as “babies’ feeding time” to go off at two-hour intervals, so that he can remind Jean to feed both herself (his big baby) and their little one (his small baby). 

____

_“Aren’t these all…a bit too much?”_

____

One evening, when Jakob came into her room to take the tray away, Jean asked this question. Again. When she slowly came to accept the fact that she was being taken care of, she couldn’t help herself to ask about this – the _intensity_ – not only once, but several times.

____

Every time, he’d shake his head, a bit confused yet giving seriously. _“I don’t think so. Do you think so?”_

____

And Jean crossed her arms and finally figured out the best thing she could do while getting stuck on this bed was troublingly simple: DO NOT COMPLAIN.

____

Of course, he knows exactly what is crossing her mind. 

____

Things happened on the next day Jean was released from the hospital. She felt immensely nauseous after lunch that day. And when she almost bolted out of the bed, he rescued her with a small plastic bucket from the bathroom like a flash of lightning, and she threw up – half into the bucket, half on the back of his hand, and a considerate amount on her carpet – with Otis stood far from her door but witnessed all the messes, and extremely terrified due to his potential gag reflex. The end of the story was Jakob asked Otis to leave the scene, Jakob cleaned up all the things that needed to be cleaned (including Jean), and Jakob noticed Jean wasn’t in a very good mood for the rest of the day. So, during his goodbye-routine with her – popping in to say bye-bye and letting her know what time he’d be here the next day – he decided to stay a little longer and asked her why.

____

_“I feel like I’m losing myself. Out of the sudden, I’m so unpresentable…incapable,”_ she buried her face in her palms, refused to look at him. _“Other than being confined in this bed and getting sore at my back, there’s nothing I can do.”_

____

The Jean he knew would never display any sign of unconfident and self-deprecation, but at this very moment, she did. He wasn’t surprised – two and a half days of clinical bed rest, one and a half days into home bed rest with so many _bed rest_ days ahead, on top of that, there were emotional depletion and energy consumption that bottled up for so, so long – he knew she was completely exhausted from the inside out.

____

_“Of course you do thing. Actually, you’re doing the most incredible thing,”_ settling at the side of her bed, he comforted her. _“You’re having a baby, Jean. All you do now is to protect it.”_

____

Lifting her head, she dropped her hands in the laps and stared at him in a way that both frightened him and allured him at the same time. _“I don’t remember if I felt this difficult when I was carrying Otis,”_ he could tell she almost wanted to cry. _“Am I really being too old for this?”_

____

_“No,”_ shifting his eyes to her abdomen, he smiled gently. _“Just this naughty little one wants to remind us to love it more.”_

____

She squeezed her eyes shut for seconds; at last, she smiled, stretching out a soft curve that has disappeared from her lips for a while. When she opened her eyes again, she looked down and stroked the swollen part in her centre with a lightened sigh.

____

_“Jean,”_ as she raised her sight, he looked into her pale blue eyes. _“We will be going through all these together.”_

____

So, the small plastic bucket remains at the corner under her bed, it has an honourable place there since then. And he is devoted to take care of her, even if she thinks these are all too much – as long as they aren’t too unbearable to her and the baby, he will do it all the way.

____

One thing that eases his mind the most is they’re picking up their very own rhythm. He likes to spend time _for_ her: designing the best recipe using ingredients with good nutrients while taking care of her food aversion, coming over to cook for her and Otis, shopping for the groceries, sending her texts to remind her to eat and stay hydrated, staying with her for a little while every time before he leaves…even having a few seconds to think about her when he’s weaving in and out of different bathrooms of different households in this sweet small town, he still likes it. He likes it a lot. 

____

And he sees smile beaming on her face again – whenever he opens her door to say _hi_ , whenever he leaves and she says _bye_ – he starts to feel happy because Jean is happy. She appreciates every little precious moment when she goes to the bathroom because she gets to feel her feet on the ground. Now there is a portable bed tray set on her bed, she can eat, she can read, she can write, she can rest, she can work, she can watch films, and she finally decides these are all the best parts of spending her days and nights on the bed. She enjoys him as her companion as well, he knows it from the way she laughs at him as he almost falls off her little yellow chair before the dressing table and asking her why all her things come so small, and the way she always listens to his story of the day whenever he wants to share, being ritualised to her bed-time stories as part of his goodbye-routine, and the way she starts requesting for food she’d like to have on the next day, where he hears her craving this and that. 

____

Somehow, he feels intimate. This isn’t necessarily physical – for they don’t have overly physical contact, too – but something emotional, perhaps deeper. Each and every day, he can feel her gives him a little more, and more, and more. She said she likes him, and she’s doing it, she’s showing it. 

____

And this part holds him back the most. As much as he feels grounded, he finds himself standing in a position where the axis of earth wobbles under his feet. He could tell her fuck the fear, but he can’t allow himself to speak out the words that he knows may cause harm. One wrong step and he can disintegrate, perhaps, stabilisation and fear are relative.

____

On Monday, he arrives at nine. Since it’s the commencement of the new term and kids are all starting school again, he’ll come over in the mornings as well to take care of Jean. He literally _digs out_ the spare key from the back of a cupboard where the Milburns put their hose in the front yard, complimentary with a lot of neutralised Swedish cursing – the spare key used to be hidden inside the flowerpot by the door, he doesn’t know why Jean has changed the spot – and so he gets into the house sweating. Jean is still asleep when he goes upstairs to check up on her. He closes the door quietly and comes back downstairs, already expecting her genial smile like the morning shines as he comes here again. 

____

And he starts making breakfast. She always likes something light for mornings – he never understands why a cup of coffee and sometimes with a piece of toast is considered “breakfast” – for a full stomach leads to difficulties to concentrate at work, as she always claims. And now, there is one more valid reason which resides in her belly that makes her seriously refuse his decent breakfast, heavy meal only worsens her morning sickness and heartburn. So, he makes it as light as he can: toasts (only two pieces), sunny side egg, Portuguese sausages, asparagus…and a glass of smoothie to replace her usual coffee. As if he can already hear a dedicated long _nooo_ with a deep frown, he simpers at that when placing two pieces of peppermint leaves that he picked from his garden into the glass.

____

As he stands right in front of her door for the second time, he holds the tray of delicate breakfast and organised utensils with one hand like a waiter, knocking at the door as his typical signal. 

____

“Jean?” 

____

“Here!” and this time, her soft response seeps out of the room that makes him beam instantly.

____

He clears his throat, mimicking with a lady’s voice. “Room service,” and then opens her door. 

____

At the far end of the room, Jean tilts her head towards him from her dressing table. On the upper body, she has put on her normal working clothes – a velvet blouse, he likes the way her first button is left unbuttoned – but looking down, she’s still with her silk pyjama bottoms. She looks strangely…glowing. She’s beautiful, even in an incompatible odd fashion.

____

“What are you doing?” he asks.

____

She waves her mascara in front of him. “Putting on makeup?”

____

“I know,” he says, scanning through her up and down again. “But why…this?” 

____

“Did you forget I have a client at 12?” arching an eyebrow, she gives, “Online session.”

____

“Oh, right…” 

____

Work stuff always super important to her – again, it’s one of her things that he never understands, but he tries to be supportive anyway – she agreed to carry on a session with one of her regular clients because _it’s my duty as a therapist_ and _he desperately needs my help_.

____

_I need your help too_ , he wants to tell her that. _I need your help to stay away from work when you needed to rest because you’re not only carrying my baby, but because I can’t let you tire yourself_ …

____

“Now, let baby eat first,” ambling into her room, he gives, doesn’t mean to sound like a command. 

____

She finishes her final touch up as quick as possible, then rises from the yellow chair, slowly sinking back into her bed. When he walks across the room to get to her side, she moves her MacBook and client’s note off the bed tray, giving him space to lay down the tray. 

____

“Is this smoothie?” grasping the glass from the tray, she inspects the purple-pink liquid with her careful eyes.

____

“Dragon fruit,” he nods slowly, nesting himself at the bottom of the bed so that he can properly face her, see her. “I read from the Internet. Red dragon fruit juice is good, especially for mammas who have anaemia during pregnancy.”

____

Even when she has received the iron infusion, she still requires taking the iron tablets one week later to ensure that she won’t become anaemic again. Meanwhile, the goddamn side effects of taking iron tablets are exactly nausea, bloating and constipation. And three weeks from now, she needs to be poked with a needle again to re-test her haemoglobin level to see if the medication has worked. 

____

She travels her eyes on him then back to the glass on her hand, pouting. “Well.”

____

Whenever he thinks about these, his chest feels tighten, or to be specific, his heart aches. Indeed, he’s willingly and readily to go through this journey with her; but it’s also true that there are many things he can’t do for her. And he feels incredibly sorry for that.

____

“Smoothie…no?” he asks. He makes a secret note to himself, if she says no this time, he won’t ask her anymore.

____

Surprisingly, she says _yes_ , then taking a mouthful of smoothie without a single hesitation. And he can’t withhold his smile when seeing her tries to lick away the layer of shallow pink that stains on her upper lip. 

____

She furrows her brows. “Why do you smile at me?”

____

“Because I want to smile at you.”

____

She gives him a look before dipping down her head for the breakfast.

____

“Eat slow slow,” he says. “Still have plenty of time before you need to see your client.”

____

“Speaking of which…I’d need you to do me a favour, Jakob.”

____

“Massaging?” he guesses. 

____

Recently, she gets sore at her back easily. Sometimes at her shoulders, sometimes at her lower back. He figures it can be an effect of her long, immovable posture on the bed. 

____

“No,” she lifts her chin up, showing him the cute proud face again. “Some sort of experiment.”

____

So, the experiment is Jakob carrying her iPad at downstairs, and Jean watches the screen of her MacBook upstairs, zooming each other. Zoom is a new thing to her, and apparently, to him too. She ends up registering an account for him and uses it to log into the Zoom in her iPad so that she can demonstrate once with Jakob before the real online session with her client. 

____

“Why can’t you just video call your client?” he asks that when walking downstairs.

____

“I don’t know,” she replies, glancing the MacBook screen that places at her left while tumbling the sausage. “Otis did this. He said Zoom is trendy now.”

____

“Didn’t you try this with Otis?”

____

“He refused. He said it was weird if we zoom each other under the same roof, even if it was just for practice.” 

____

“Okay,” he reaches the base, pondering where to go now. Every corner is her house, whatever place will be funny to stay, no wonder Otis said it was weird. 

____

At last, he walks over the reading area under the stairs, sitting on the cushion and placing her iPad on his laps. Looking down, he studies the features of the Zoom meeting, clicking this and that, then asks Jean to try the same. He recalls the scene when Ola was video calling her ex-classmates from the previous school in the living room, she used to give something like _I need to off the cam_ , _why you muted_ …so he watches how Jean’s screen becomes dark, then reappears again; and how she tries to mouth him with words as she mutes her mic. 

____

“You froze, just now,” at some point, she brings up. “I couldn’t hear you.”

____

“I froze?”

____

“I mean your image on the screen,” she explains.

____

“Oh,” he remarks, then he asks, “Why do your image look so blur, Jean?”

____

“Really?” frowning, she leans closer to the screen.

____

“You’ve got stains on your camera. I can’t see clearly your beautiful face, your client can’t see clearly your beautiful face,” he starts snickering. “Rub it?”

____

“I can’t…I’m eating,” leaning back, she gives innocently, then showing him that she’s now with a handful of toast. “Maybe later.”

____

“Forget about it,” he laughs louder now, not even trying to cover it up. “Just kidding with you.” 

____

“Hellooo?!” she exclaims. “Jakob, this is serious business!”

____

And she asks him to walk around. And he answers her there is no place he can walk around because this is her house. _Just walk around_ , she almost yells. Thus, in the end, he wanders into the kitchen and starts introducing her with her own kitchen like a tour guide.

____

“Okay, I don’t think it works with rear camera,” he says, glancing down at the screen before he raises it again. “You’re gonna see my face all the time, Jean.”

____

“I don’t mind at all.”

____

“So, this is your table,” he lifts the iPad higher than him so that the dining table at his back can fall into the frame as well.

____

“Mmm, what a nice table.”

____

“This is your sink. Someone broke the tap once, _accidentally_. I’ve fixed it, don’t worry.”

____

His accent seems to make “don’t worry” into a magical spell, light and soft and tingly. That _someone_ is bursting out bubbles of laugh at the other side of the screen.

____

“And this, is your fridge,” he moves around again, adding, “Now it almost becomes my fridge.”

____

“You seem proud with that, huh?”

____

“Just a little bit,” admitting with a grimace, he winds towards the larder. “This is your, uh, storeroom,” opening the door, he walks into the larder and sees the pan shelf. 

____

That pan shelf. 

____

“Hey? You froze again, Jakob.”

____

Somehow, her voice brings him back from the trance. He lets loose a sigh that she can’t see, then turning around and moving up the iPad. “This is…your pan shelf,” he manages, feigning a smile to the camera. “I made it.”

____

On his face, the corners of his mouth turn down. On the screen, the smile that curves her lips is now freezing. He wonders who freezes now?

____

In the silence, he moves down the iPad, waiting for any sign that one of them will start to speak. But there is nothing, other than each of them being in the different places in the same house, thinking about the thing that shouldn’t be thinking, there is nothing. 

____

Out of a sudden, her smooth soft voice falls back into his ears. “Jakob,” she whispers his name just like the first time she said it. 

____

“I’m sorry,” pulling himself with a deep breath, he gazes down at her in the screen. “I upset you.”

____

And she looks stilled, seems like she also doesn’t know how to react the best. But she hesitates for a moment, says, “I quite like that pan shelf…actually.” 

____

He tries to _see_ her. “I like it, too.”

____

“I especially like that man who stood inside and shot me with his drill, telling me he was doing his James Bond impression.” 

____

At that, he finally laughs out, gentle and whole-heartedly. The screen shivers a bit with his vibration. 

____

“If I meet that man again, I’ll tell him that…in fact, he had shot me at my heart,” each and every word that she says right now, and later, all makes his eyes well up. He doesn’t see these are coming. “I’ll tell him my heart had broken ever since that day, I couldn’t go into my larder because of that. I felt pain at my chest whenever I missed him, I thought I’d never been able to put the pieces back.” 

____

Though he can’t see clearly of her features, and he can’t tell if the pixels of the image are masking her with any hint that he’s missing, he knows it’s her. It’s always been her.

____

“I wish I could kiss him and say thank you, rather than hurting him…” she talks to the camera, her eyes pierce through the screen as if she is looking into his eyes directly. “I wish I hadn’t let him finish up that three screws and then leave me.”

____

For a fleeting second, he wants to race into her room like a whirlwind and kiss her lips straightaway. He wants to tell her he will knit back her broken heart with his bare hands, and he will never go away. 

____

He wants to…but, can he? Can he do that?

____

“Jean,” shakily, he breathes. “I wish it too.” 

____

And both of their images freeze again. Ever so subtly, it says _unstable internet connection_.

____

____

__•_ _

__The next day, he arrives in the afternoon because she texted him: _Please don’t come in the morning_. She didn’t sleep well last night, so she wanted to go back to sleep, promising him that she would eat some crackers before that._  
_

He makes her brunch, a quick one, for he only gets one-hour gap before he needs to head to his next customer. And he sits at the edge of her bed, as usual, wanting to watch her finish the meal. But she waggles her little fingers and shoos him away.

____

“Go to work,” glancing at him, she asserts. 

____

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

____

“Positive.” 

____

She tells him she still feels a little light-headed as he comes in with the tray. And she says _it’s manageable_ , again. If there was a chance, he would have made a call to heaven, asking God how to twist his baby mamma’s tough-minded. Sadly, for whatever numbers he’d try to call, they all would be telling him that heaven is not in service.

____

“I want to stay here as long as I can,” he tells her. “You’ll be alone later.”

____

“Otis will be back in a few hours,” she scoops a spoonful of mashed potato and sends it into her mouth. She widens her eyes to him. “Jakob, this is fantastic,” and having another big scoop in pleasure.

____

“Before he’s back, you are still alone.”

____

“I will make sure myself staying well in this bed, alive, and don’t get any harm when he finds me, is this comforting your restless anxiety?” she replies with an expression ever so ease and convinced, like she’s talking to her client. She then squints, reading him. “And with your displayed behaviours these days…I find that you might have underlying paranoiac personality.”

____

Oh, so not only Otis, but he is now being analysed too. He congratulates himself for moving up a tier.

____

“You’re a good therapist, but I can’t trust your observation on me, Jean,” leaning closer to look into her eyes, he grins. “Before this, you said I was a…what is it called? Playboy? Also, you thought I didn’t want our baby,” he then moves both his hands up on his chest and rubs there. “I am so hurt, you know?”

____

“They were different!” to his surprise, she blushes – blushing Jean is so, so cute – and she scowls at him. “I’ll tell you my observation when you come back here later. I’m sure this time I’ve seen through you. Now, off to work please, Mr Builder.”

____

So, as she wishes, he changes his status back to Mr Builder, ready to rescue distress households in Moordale with their houses that are falling apart. And before he leaves, he tells her that he will make her soup tonight. After all, Mr Builder is still a family man inside.

____

Once, he asked his sister what a family should look like in her mind. Her sister shrugged, turning her head to eye on him. _“Du och jag,”_ she said. _You and I_ were two people. In their house, there had always been the only two of them, but it was still a family.

____

He pushes the glass door of the printing shop with a “CLOSED” sign facing him, walking in with his toolbox and his tool belt that slings over his left shoulder, he thinks the shop just had a tsunami: all the paper products on the bottom racks are ruined, three-quarters of the cheap quality hardwood flooring are fucked; planks swell and buckle up, the whole shop smells like the mouldy rotten wood or a pile of wet socks that have been there for days, whichever is worse. May God bless this land – sometimes, if it’s needed, he would pray.

____

A bald man ran toward him; his face is as fuck as his floor. “Fuck the burst pipe!” he sighs deeply, his Welsh accent is so thick that Jakob has to catch carefully. “We had a day off yesterday. And now the water has leaked for two whole bloody nights.”

____

“Lead me,” he nods, then follows the man to the source of all problems.

____

See, this is exactly the problem: it was indeed a family, a root that grew with blood tying. Even with a father who now had his own new family and only knew loving them with money and nothing more, and a mother who barely knew about motherhood and had abandoned them since long ago, they still gave these siblings each other – an older sister that could look after a younger brother, a boy that was expected to protect a girl – with that, they were creating a conventional unconventional family. But it wasn’t a family he wanted. Staring at the snow outside from the window of their drawing room year by year wasn’t the life he wanted. 

____

“You don’t sound local, mate,” the man crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, watching Jakob waves his tools like the magic wand in the shop’s loo – another scene of the disaster.

____

Though he’s quiet and he prefers quiet, he doesn’t mind people talking to him at work. “I’m Swedish.”

____

“Ha, my ex-wife is Swedish too,” he says. “As I say ‘ex-wife’, we split,” another deep sigh. Jakob supposes because all things of his life are now fucked. 

____

“Sorry to hear that,” and he stops there, doesn’t intend to be gossiping.

____

“One day, she told me it’s time to go home, and then she went back to Sweden. I thought here was already her home,” the man talks to himself. And he braces himself tighter, the furrow of his brows becomes deeper. “Mate, do you ever think of going back?”

____

He told his sister his first stop would be Denmark. But what he didn’t tell her was that it was only for a week, then, he would be heading to the next stop – no specific destination, no specific duration – until he left as far as he could from their homeland, until he made sure the problem was no longer causing pain, until he forgot where was the right way back, until the blood that ran through him streamed into its own matching way…and his sister asked him would he come back, he never answered that.

____

Sometimes, he learnt that therapists just like genealogists. His ex-therapist tried to trace the lines of his ancestry, investigating the dynamic of his origin family. She told him his need for intimacy rooted deep with the family problem and his obsessive expectation on stable happiness. 

____

_“I never wanted this kind of family,”_ he said. _“I fled.”_

____

_“And you did want your own family. You had a wife, you have two beautiful children,”_ his therapist then asked, _“But the sadness still happened. Do you know why?”_

____

So, all the consequences followed like a chain: one thing dropped on another thing, one problem led to another problem. In the end, they crumbled all at once as the dominos. If he wasn’t forgiving himself for everything, it would happen again and again.

____

Ola is right, he never truly forgives himself for the past of his life. And she’s right again, he needs to tell Jean everything. After all, Jean is his remedy, Jean is the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with…but he can’t hurt her. She’s having a baby now, how can he rip his heart out and tell her to look at it?

____

His mood is a bit ruined when his daughter went back with Otis after school without further notice. It caught him off guard when Ola opened the door for him instead of Otis.

____

“I don’t see there’s a problem, Dad,” in the kitchen, Ola stands beside the table, shoving her hands into her dungarees and gives, “I think you’re simply overreactive.”

____

“I would appreciate if my daughter tells me exactly where she goes before she _actually_ goes,” he lectures in Swedish. His tone is too low as if he’s uttering a long and dangerous sound. “Especially when I thought she would be going home straight after school but she’s not.” 

____

“Honestly, what’s your problem?”

____

“It’s for your safety, Ola.”

____

“I’m sure I’m old enough to understand that follow my half-sibling’s half-brother to go home to visit my half-sibling’s mother is completely safe!” Ola starts to lose her patience. “I don’t think there’s a necessity to report to my father for my every single geographic coordinate!”

____

“Speak English!” turning over from the sink, he is so confused – why the fuck there are so many _half_ things? - yet so angry. “Or speak Swedish!”

____

“I mean, I want to visit Jean! I don’t care what are you thinking!”

____

“Ola Nyman!”

____

“What!”

____

“Wow, wow, wow! Calm down, both of you, calm down!” and Otis steps into the battlefield without armour or any other protection, just standing between the two of them and raises both his hands above his head. “Okay, I don’t know what exactly you guys are quarrelling about, I don’t understand Swedish, so –”

____

Ola pulls her hands out of her pockets, crossing them over her chest. “Apparently, my dad doesn’t want me to be here,” she shoots a look at Jakob before she explains to Otis. 

____

“Huh? Why?” Otis looks at Jakob as well, confused.

____

“Cooking dinner now, you two go do homework,” and so the father commands in a cool manner and turns back, the girl rolls her eyes and says, _Otis, let’s play Smash Bros_ , then walks upstairs, leaving the poor boy stands in the middle with a dropped jaw and doesn’t seem to understand.

____

“Well…” swallowing, Otis turns to Jakob mechanically and walks to the counter with his attempting cheerful jumping steps. “So, hi, Jakob, how are you doing? Ha! Never seen you that… _fatherly_ , you know, haha…” and he embraces himself at the elbows, stammering after some dry chuckles. “And Ola, she’s usually quite cute…never seen her yelling this way as well…Jesus, what am I doing…” and he awkwardly shuts up.

____

“How’s your mother?” Jakob doesn’t mind Otis; his voice falls back to his peaceful tone when he speaks to him. “Is she good?”

____

“Oh, yeah, my mum, she’s good,” Otis nods, wincing when he sees Jakob handling the chicken. “She’s taking a nap now, but she’s good.”

____

“Okay.”

____

“Uh, look, Jakob, I don’t know why you angry with Ola, but if it’s because she is here…it was me, actually…I suggested to Ola for coming back home with me.”

____

“You?” and he turns to the boy in a way that makes him go stiff a bit.

____

“Yes, I’m sorry! Wait, why am I saying sorry?” Otis mumbles to himself, then stares back at Jakob who is still waiting for him. He tries to hold his gaze, but he really isn’t that calm. “Okay, okay, so, what I want to say is, Ola has bought Mum some books from the bookfair she worked and asked me if I could bring them back to her. Then I thought, why not she came back home with me and gave Mum those books herself…might as well stay for dinner, for you would be here anyway, so you don’t need t-to – you know…”

____

“She could have asked me to pass those books to Jean,” Jakob says, giving out a sigh before he resumes his work.

____

“I think you’d need to figure out why she chose to ask me instead of you…sorry, I’m not interfering, just speaking from the perspective of a friend to her father.” 

____

He smiles at the way of Otis speaks, he sounds more and more like his mother. 

____

“Then, did she…say anything to Jean?” Jakob asks finally – the thing that worries him the most – his voice suddenly changes, barely audible, but he tries to make it sound as casual as he can. “Did Jean look upset…or what?”

____

“Um…I don’t know, she stayed with Mum for a while when I was heating some leftover for Mum, no idea of what they’ve talked about,” Otis shrugs, more confused now but still tries to act normally. “I don’t think Mum looks upset though. She looks normal…and she’s even quite enjoyed when seeing Ola. I mean, she’s been bed resting for days, I think she misses to talk to someone else as well.”

____

“I see,” he gives, reaching for the chopping board. “Thank you, Otis.”

____

“So…you won’t be angry with us anymore, right?” 

____

He grasps the knife and starts chopping, the chopping sound makes Otis flinch again. “You, no. But Ola, still a little bit,” he pauses a moment, turning to Otis with a serious face. “She’s not polite to her father.” 

____

“Okay,” Otis gasps, his voice breaks. “Undestan…”

____

“Otis!” Ola’s voice lingers across the rooms. She lowers her body to look through the handrails of the staircase, shouting to the kitchen. “ _Smash_!”

____

Jakob turns around and shouts back, “I said _homework_!”

____

“Don’t worry about homework,” Otis lifts his hands before his chest, speaking so quickly. “We’ve finished our homework before you came. Call us when dinner’s ready?” and then he flees within seconds. 

____

He watches Otis and Ola disappear at the end of the staircase and hopes that their running footsteps will not disturb Jean. And he’s still gazing at the deep spaces at his front – across the kitchen, the kitchen counter, then the living room – figures if this is a home that has him, if all these could be a family. 

____

Jakob hasn’t seen Jean yet. When the dinner is served, the teenagers come downstairs without calling, and Otis volunteers to send the tray upstairs, not wanting Jakob to walk up and down. And when they all finished their dinner, in the silence of course, Otis offers himself to do the dishes as well, oh, with Ola – “Why me?” “You don’t want to trigger your dad again, do you? He was talking to me while CHOPPING!” “You’re a coward, Otis.” “Whatever! Hand me the bowls now, please!” – and so, Jakob goes upstairs to retrieve Jean’s tray, and finally gets to see her again after a long day.

____

Knocks twice and opens the door – waiting for seconds, his right hand is still gripping at the handle, he tries to take in the scene from the threshold of the door. _It’s dim_ , this is his first thought, the only source of light in this room is the lamp on the bedside table at her side; his second thought is Jean already sleeps. 

____

As he steps into the room quietly, just like the rhythm they have played by heart, Jean twists around and meets him. 

____

“Oh, hi again,” he smiles at her. “Go back to sleep,” he says, approaching the bed tray she has placed under her bed before she sleeps. “Just taking this to the kids, they’re washing the dishes.”

____

Before he bends down, she calls him softly, asks, “Can you come over here?”

____

And he does what she says. Closing the door first, he walks across her room and reaches her side. He refuses to sit on her little yellow chair again, so he crouches down and sits on the floor instead. He has his back leans against the bedside table, then stretching his long legs across the floor; he slips the carpet beneath him in a mess when he does so, and he says _oops_ , and they both laugh lightly at that. 

____

Tilting his head to face her, he asks with his eyes look directly into hers. “Anything, Jean?”

____

“Just want to look at you.”

____

“Okay, then,” he stretches a soft smile on his lips. “How are my babies doing?”

____

She chuckles as he includes her in his _babies_. “We’re fine, just tired…sleep a lot,” she answers, blinking with her little sleepy eyes. “And thanks for your chicken soup, it was very nice.”

____

“My soup is the best,” he says. “I heard Ola bringing you books?”

____

She shifts her eyes to dart at his back; he looks over his shoulder and sees three books lying on top of her bedside table, blocking the snacks box.

____

“All so thick,” turning back to her, he frowns. Thick book isn’t a good thing to him, it makes his brain cells suffer; but he knows it’s a good thing to her, for she’s so _academia_. 

____

“Not to keep it from you, but Ola and I met once actually…when we met up at the coffee shop.”

____

“I know,” he nods gently. “She has told me.”

____

“She invited me to visit the bookfair, and I said I would. Who knew at the time that I would end up bed resting for the rest of the holidays,” she smiles wryly as she says that, then glancing at him. “She bought me pregnancy books, so thoughtful of her. Please tell her I say _thank you_ again.”

____

“I will.”

____

Their faces level, their eyes still lock at the tide of one another – he can still see the pale blue hue of her eyes that he has never seen, an ocean for him to swim – and he’s wondering that whether he can ask her if Ola has said anything to her, wondering that how he supposes to react for the answer…

____

“Jakob,” she whispers, shifting beneath her duvet, wanting to move closer.

____

And instinctively, he leans forward, filling her world with all of him. As though he never leaves her at all. As though she wants him all along.

____

As she stares right at him, like she’s staring up at her sky, a hint of tear fills up her eyes. “Can you stay with me…tonight?” genuinely and quietly, she asks. 

____

This strikes through him, entirely. He goes rigid, hovering there with his mind completely goes blank. 

____

Outside, when the stars finally travel through the longer day to hang themselves in the night sky; in this room, when the whole space they share goes dark except for the warmth lamp light that hit right on their faces; when it is so quiet, so quiet that the laughter of the kids from downstairs creep into their ears, if they concentrate enough, they can even hear the heartbeats of each other. They’re close enough for their skins humming at each other. 

____

And his heart starts to throb with pulses, and their night starts to crumble. The stars clash and lose their footings in their trails.

____

“I can’t,” and finally, he blurts out. 

____

She purses her lips and flickers her eyes away, staring at elsewhere. But her facial features are tinted with calmness, her eyelashes flitter in understandable. 

____

It is that second, he moves up, sliding his hand over her. His palm brushes through the bare skin of her shoulder and slips into her nape to cup the back of her head. As he brings another hand to cup her cheek and dips down his head, she rolls over a little to accommodate him and shuts her eyes in anticipation. Lifting her hands to curl around his shoulders, she pulls him closer.

____

As if her face is a sky atlas, the track of his kisses is the re-painted route for the fallen stars to trace the way back home. The creases of his lips wander through her forehead, down to her nose bridge and closing eye. He adjusts his angle so that he can sweep across every freckle of hers, remembering that these are all his favourite – her face in the mornings and at the nights, her eyes in blue that paler than his but flicker with brilliant shines, her stunning profile and her softest lips…her lips.

____

He stops as the tips of their nose touching each other, the distance between their lips not even a centimetre – he can’t stay because he can’t wake up from her side and never be able to join her back in slumber. He can’t tell her he’s fighting hard with darkness and there are many moments he just wants to surrender. He can’t see her as his intimacy because he can’t trust her that she won’t get hurt – and now, with so many words that he can’t speak, how can he even kiss her?

____

His face reddens, he ducks his sight immediately. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back from her. “Sorry, I can’t…” 

____

Even when they don’t kiss lips on lips, she already catches his breath away. He slumps back against the bedside table, a bit too hard, that the lamp starts to shake, and he thinks his heart trembles the same. He breathes deeper, slower, longer…trying to stay focus, trying to stay grounded. 

____

Other than their panting breaths become stable, none of them is making a single sound. Soon he learns that silence actually has a sound, it bounces back from their own walls and echoes. How possible for the silence can produce such a strong force in his room of thought, already punching holes? 

____

Nothing worse than silence. 

____

The gloomy is flooding in through the cracks on his walls – he brings his hand up to mask his face, bringing himself the dark rather than being invaded – fuck the pieces of the night that fall with the coming stars, for he’s always failed to paint the right way home. The pain streams into his veins, idling his system, that his body starts caving in to the feelings that he doesn’t want to feel, sliding him back to the place where he used to fit.

____

And then he feels touch, a real touch, more like a squeeze, gentle but empowered. The immediate sensation makes his hand drop from his face in startle, and his world is dimly lit again, and his eyes are full of Jean again. 

____

Her left hand dangles across from her bed, resting on his upper arm. He stares at her with confounds. 

____

When she looks at him, as if every bit of her is looking into him, catching the words that have written all over his eyes but unable to speak. “It’s okay,” she says. Her voice tears in the seam of darkness like a streak of silver light, making him believe. 

____

Slowly, he leans over again as she signals him. It seems established, it seems all the movements have carved into the memories, her hand finds its way to crest on his cheek. He closes his eyes as she starts caressing him there, pondering if he could ask her, but then again, what should he even ask?

____

Her thumb is stroking back and forth at the darkened shade renders beneath his eye bag, as though she’s trying to smooth out the fine lines there, to brush away numerous nights that are stranded there. “You look exhausted…” she murmurs.

____

Somehow, the words slip out of her mouth like she already knows the answer to the question he never asks.

____

His eyes strike open and find a bead of tears rolls out from her eye. His heart wretches again persistently. “I thought…” he recalls what she has said in the morning. “You said you would tell me your new observation on me when I came back here, was just fooling me.”

____

“No,” she scoffs, flickering the lids of her eyes. “I would never fool around with my expertise.”

____

He watches the bead of tears glides across her nose bridge, then disappears. He hopes the heaviness that sticks in his chest can disappear. “I’m sorry, Jean.” 

____

“You shouldn’t say sorry.” 

____

He lifts his hand on his cheek to wrap her hand, grabbing her fingers tight. “This time…you see me right.” 

____

Taking a breath, she gives him a soft arch at the corner of her mouth. “I told you, I’ve _seen through_ you.” 

____

And he smiles because she starts smiling. When she smiles, her eyes narrow as the crescent moons that tilt upside down; and sometimes, her nose scrunches. And if he’s lucky enough, she’ll beam in a big, big smile that her mouth parts where her pinky gum and little teeth appear to say hello. 

____

He loves her smile a lot, it feels like the first day in August – the feeling of getting stuck in between summer and autumn, everything is just fine and balance; and the feeling of warming breeze kisses your cheeks, that makes you remember how good that is to miss someone, that you ever love someone. 

____

“Jakob,” she manages. “I’ve been thinking.” 

____

“Mhm, what is it?”

____

“If I get out of bed tomorrow, then you won’t need to come over.”

____

He furrows his brows; the heart starts to pound again. “Why?”

____

“Well,” adjusting her head in the pillow, she begins. “I’m clearly aware of my own condition, I’m good enough to get out of bed,” and she gazes at him lovingly. “And you. You’ve been taken care of us since I was discharged, you deserve a day off.”

____

“Taking care of someone doesn’t need a day off.”

____

“But I want you to rest, Jakob,” her voice turns firm suddenly – _very Dr Milburn_ , he thinks – and she’s insisting. “A proper rest is required as you work all day long. You don’t have to come because I hope you can take the time to rest after work. It is important for your physical health, your mental health...”

____

He wants to put her hand down; he doesn’t want her to feel his rising heat for his tangled mind. But instead, he travels his eyes away, sighing in anxious. 

____

“Hey,” she says, rubbing his cheekbone again so that he can look at her. “I’m certain I would survive without your care for one or two days. And I promise you, I won’t stand long and walk around, just staying in my office. Ah, and every two hours, I’ll remember to feed your _babies_ ,” she then glances up, winking at him in a way to seek for his permission. “Is it okay?”

____

The fact is, she doesn’t need his permission at all. She is free and independent, and he can’t even count himself as her boyfriend. But she still asks him, she still considers his feelings. She has made a move to him; he forces himself not to step back. 

____

“Okay,” squeezing her hand with gentle, he grimaces dryly.

____

She giggles back, but her little sleepy blinks are taking over her once more. 

____

“Alright, sleeping time.”

____

“Wait,” she protests, refusing to let him take down her hand. “You know, I have a follow-up appointment on Thursday,” when she speaks, she tries to grow her eyes big to look at him, doesn’t want to miss any moment of his face. “Do you think you could come?”

____

“Yeah,” he cracks a big smile. “Yeah, of course, I could.”

____

“Great,” she wants to smile, but rather, she yawns. 

____

This time, he brings her hand down back the bed and helps her pulling the duvet up to her chest. “Okay, time for bed, no negotiation,” palming gently at her shoulder, his thumb dances at the tip of her shoulder in a small circle. The _circle of ties_ , he learnt it from her. “I’ll watch you sleep.”

____

“Don’t you need to get the tray for the kids?” she frowns lightly, he can tell she really can’t withstand the weight of her eyelids anymore. 

____

“Never mind, I’ll wash yours.” 

____

“You know I hate it when you watch me sleep,” she mutters, but she’s shutting her eyes, wriggling her body into a comfortable position beneath his caress. 

____

“Please don’t hate it tonight,” he says softly.

____

As he presses against her shoulder, to feel the warmness of her skin, he can hear the fragmented night sighs, the fallen stars weep. He can’t sew back the night, he can’t re-paint the stars; but he knows what else he can do with his paints and brushes, the look of hers is burning deeply into his mind. 

____

This is the story of an unhappy man. There was a piece of fluff, there were three more screws, there was a broken heart. And now, there was a kiss lost in their woven breaths. This is the memory, penetrates layers by layers, being engraved with pain and tears and heat, so when it’s stretched like a canvas from end to end, it stays eternity.

____

Downstairs, he has a daughter waiting for him to bring her home; here in the bed, his saddened eyes watch her squirms, rustling the sheet.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays and thank you for reading this chapter!  
> -  
> Jean loves Jakob so that she finally shows him it is how it is. Jakob loves Jean so he has many hesitations (and pains 😭). (they're loving each other but don't know why I just have a bit melancholy after finishing this chapter...don't mind me don't mind me)  
> -  
> Any comment would be appreciated! Thank you! Enjoy! Don't be melancholy like me!


	5. The Wisp Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting for the update. And here it comes.  
> -  
> You may listen to [" _The Wisp Sing_ "](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_A0Beo0M-tQ) by Winter Aid when reading this chapter  
> (If you happen to notice the music inspo for this fic, I strongly recommend you to listen to this song as the lyrics fit so well with this chapter. It got me so emotional and easily felt the pain of Jakob and Jean..it really is a beautiful song)  
> -  
>  **WARNING:** This is a super long chapter, your patience is required. Content features mentioning of tormenting personal history, a strong heart is required (might as well prepare a tissue box just in case).  
> -  
> And thank you @jean_and_jakob on Instagram for making manips that keep me writing about Jeankob.

If he could paint it, the entire feeling would look like floating clouds – soft, fluffy, weightless, paradise-like. Of course, it’s just metaphorical. It is just metaphorical.

It doesn’t take Jakob long to get to the antenatal clinic in the community hospital. Walking out of the lift, he sees Jean right at the first sight – in the waiting room, she sits on the blue chair in the second last row, crossing her legs while casually scanning through the people who walk past her. She’s waiting for him.

 _“So, they scheduled me an ultrasound scan at 1.30, then there’s an appointment with a consultant OB,”_ yesterday, she told him about the appointment when he checked in on her during teatime. She said it so casually, but still hesitating. _“And…you sure you could make it, right?”_

 _“Yeah, yeah,”_ he replied, much more to a self-reassurance, a reaffirmation. Somehow, when the words formulated deep down from his throat, there was a strange sort of feeling lingering around. It felt surreal. _“Jean?”_

_“Yes?”_

He tightened his lips. _“I think I would be meeting you there, okay?”_ he explained, _“Have to work in the morning.”_

He had to work in the morning. If he wanted to, he could actually shorten his working time and offer her a lift, it just that, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He didn’t know what to say during their journey in that small, shared place spending in a van. He didn’t know what to answer if Jean ever asked him how he felt – he didn’t even want her to begin with this at all. 

_“Okay,”_ thankfully, she said _okay_. 

_“Okay,”_ he replied back. Glancing out the window from the coffee shop where they had their first meet up after breaking up, where they shared a nice crepe cake, he wondered how she was doing when he wasn’t around. He wondered if she had a poor appetite like when they were here the last time, if she missed him just as he missed her so bad, even if they hadn’t seen each other just for a day. _“I have to go now. Remember to feed yourself and baby. Get more rest if you can, and –”_

_“Will do!”_

He chuckled, then heaving out a light sigh. _“Drive safely tomorrow. Text me when you leave home?”_

 _“Sure,”_ she promised. 

_“Okay, okay. So, bye-bye for now.”_

_“Wait, Jakob…”_

He switched his phone to the other hand and waited. The pulse beat at a faster, anticipated pace. 

_“See you tomorrow,”_ she said. _“I’m looking forward to it.”_

There he smiled. In her voice, he could hear her quiet smile too. _“Me as well, Jean.”_

Quietly, he slips into the chair at her left and pins his sight on her, contemplating that when he can catch her attention. But just as he expected, she turns her head over just in time, meeting his eyes.

“Hi,” he says, unable to stop himself from beaming by just looking at her. 

“You’re late,” she cracks a smile as she replies, then tilting her head a little. “But hi.”

Even now the very normal kind of greeting between them slowly becomes his peculiar sort of favourite. Perhaps when people look back at the end of the day, the daily simplest things are always the most precious memories for a whole life. 

“Traffic God isn’t in a good mood today,” he gives. 

“Really?” she smirks, staring at his chest for a moment. Her pale blue eyes are searching for something beneath his corduroy jacket.

As much as the anxiety can drive him insane in the next minute, he’s so desperately wanting to celebrate this moment. He rushed back home after the morning customer even though it wasn’t convenient at all. He took a shower, shaved the stubble, putting on the cologne – not too much, as he wasn’t sure if Jean could tolerate the scent given her current condition – and then he changed his shirt…wait, how many times again before he decided to put on her favourite cashmere blue jumper?

“Well…” glancing up at him, Jean finally decides, “Excuse is accepted.”

He smiles back. “They are late too,” nine minutes ago, her follow-up ultrasound scan should have begun. 

“In the hospital, people just never on time.”

“Is this why I am excused?”

“Of course not. You do have some advantages over them, which I refuse to make clear of because I think you certainly know well,” she then gives him a knowing wink before turning away.

He lets out some loose chuckles and leans against the chair, adjusting himself so that he can somehow mirror her posture – his hands palm on his thighs while hers drop in the laps, crossing his legs like her in the same position, the tips of their right feet tilt to the same direction.

“Have you eaten, Jean?” 

She turns back to him from reading an infographic on the wall. A pregnancy calendar that chronicles the conception to the birth of a baby. “Yes. Why?”

“Just wanted to ask you what you had for lunch.”

“Um, well, I cooked myself congee. Just like the way you taught me,” she says, then arching her brow, adding, “With vegetables.”

“Oh. Woah,” nodding slightly, he raises his eyebrow like her, watching her little proud face. “Ve-ge-ta-bles.”

“There were some carrots, sweet corn kernels, uh…broccoli, ginger slices, mushrooms…and basically whatever I could find from the mountains of ingredients you’ve left in my fridge.”

Knowing that her cooking skills are quite meagre, he offered her some cooking guides before: something that is simple and quick to cook for herself whenever he can’t be there for her; something that will make her stand right in front of a stove with courage and confidence instead of surrendering herself to go back to her doctorate program and start over. 

“Good. It’s healthy,” he widens his smile a bit, almost wanted to praise her with her _you’re fantastic_. “You did remember to put some salts in it, hm?” 

She shoots a look at him as if she’s silently protesting that she isn’t completely a cooking idiot. 

“You remembered. Well done, Jean.”

But she grows her eyes, shaking her head with her lips pursed. “I offered my lunch to the toilet just now,” she says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” the genial curves vanish from his lips as he frowns. He moves up his hand and slides his palm across her upper back, brushing there gently. “You okay now?”

She nods, grimacing. “Well, for the record, I always feel much better after throwing up rather than nausea that gets stuck with me all the time and nothing comes out,” there she shrugs, seems to normalise with this after all. “I’m pretty lucky, I only have nausea and this intermittent vomiting currently. Lord probably have mercy on me for getting sick days and nights like a couple of weeks ago.” 

“Were you like this too when having Otis?” 

She looks at him, narrowing her eyes and musing for a while. He almost forgets there are over a decade apart between her current and last pregnancies.

Eventually, she gives, “There were always some struggles during the first trimester. But I hadn’t had this nauseous last time, definitely not after the first few months,” then she sighs, smirking wryly at the prospect. “As I said, this time I felt _difficult_.”

For a second, he winces. He can easily draft out the hardships that are waiting ahead of her along this pregnancy journey – how many appointments, how many tests, how many needles. He understands her fears and worries as he can even feel them himself painfully detailed. But there is always something he overlooked, something from the past that he has forgotten and now crushing him with a sharp twinge: there were times he wasn’t with her, she went through all by herself and struggled.

“Different pregnancies come with different symptoms,” looking at her, his fingers tremble lightly against her back. “Try to talk to your doctor about this? Maybe they could do something.”

“But there’s a chance they would ask me to simply go along with it. In fact, it’s a _high_ chance. Some women continue to suffer from morning sickness throughout the pregnancy, it’s not uncommon.”

“I can make you some home remedies, then,” eyeing the popping outline of her belly, he adds, “And cook food that you both like.” 

She smiles dryly at that and looks down, cradling her little bump. “Or just so happens that this little one really doesn’t fancy Mummy’s cooking, huh?” she taps her forefinger at the top of her belly. “You can’t be picky, you know.”

Their little one is now approaching fifteen weeks. Seems like all the present symptoms are showing that its current enjoyment is to bully Jean relentlessly. 

“If so…” he soothes gently, leaning closer. “Does this little one happen to fancy Pappa’s cooking?” 

She stares at him with the vaguely curves bracket the corners of her lips, which he can’t really comprehend what does it mean. Her smile looks a bit similar to the one she gave him before she walked away from him, from the room with the big windows where they both should have accepted that they weren’t meant for each other. If he flashes through the timeline in mind, he’ll remember how he ever let her leave him that he thought would be for a lifetime. 

Just as she tilts her head to fit into his eyes, he gazes at her lips, that alluring _lustering_ ; he sees them divide, open as if they are in the finest slow-motion, burning frame to frame vividly into his deepest layer of memory – she is just going to say something – and then her name is being called. 

“Oh,” she gasps, a soft perk of a smile at that perfect timing. She then turns her head to the voice that is calling her and signals with a gentle nod. And oddly, she never turns back to him. 

He watches her scooping up her handbag and her purple-white striped pregnancy notes folder from the chair aside with both hands, then rising from the seat in a single moment, smooth and uninterrupted. Has she forgotten something or has she not forgotten at all – because she just leaves without him, having his right hand still resting above the back of her chair, where the hand just skimmed across her back. He furrows his brows in a daze, closing and stretching his fingers a few times. The hand feel of her patterned dress coat still hasn’t faded away from each of his fingertips just yet.

Suddenly, he realises that they never properly discuss the context of this: his status to her, their statuses to outsiders should have they been seen this way. What does it actually mean when Jean asked him to come along? Stay outside, as someone who offers accompany; or go inside, as the father of the baby? Perhaps Jean never meant to let him enter the pregnancy scan room, or else she would have at least signalled him something – like a cue, a hint that says to him perfectly clear: _you can come with me to see our baby_ – even if it’s just a simple glimpse, rather than walking away just like that. And now, this whole invitation seems like merely a thoughtful gesture. Shall he just remain wherever he’s being left, as it’s the most secure way to provide spaces? What if he’s actually allowed to join her for the scan? Did he even prepare for this? Did he ever – 

“Jakob?”

Not far from him, Jean is standing still. All her things are still clutched in her arms, and her eyes are searching, and her brows hold tight, confused just like him. 

“Jean,” his voice is usually level, but there is a surprise that striking deep into the soul, bringing out the truest response.

“I almost got into the room only to realise you didn’t follow,” she blinks uncomfortably, following by an awkward smile. “I told them I lost the baby’s father. I’m going to find him.” 

Strangely, that fading smile looks deeper than its actual meaning. 

“Sorry,” he stands up straight from the chair. Both his hands brush through the sides of his jeans unconsciously as he tries to take a few steps forward. “I’m sorry, Jean, I’m just –” and he sighs, running out of words. 

She takes a deep breath, manages, “Thought you’d want to come in together…” curving her lips a bit, a small scoff, she then looks away. As if she is so foolish at the time being, as if she is as apologetic as he is. “Well, looks like I might have made a wrong presumption.”

He’s still in the haze of some kind, but he shakes his head instead. “No, not like this.”

She turns back her face, looking down at his restless fingers against his jeans, the sincerity of his feeling brings her comfort. But he clenches his hands into fists as soon as he finds out that she’s watching, and she glances up at him with her face suddenly falling, neither knowing what words shall be uttered to fill in between.

It isn’t about the presumption that she has made. It isn’t about his own thoughts that are varied and tangled. It just the things that they still need to put in efforts to stitch, to heal, to get used to, all together and as a team. Ever so clearly, the rhythm he thought they are slowly picking up seems to still have a lot to be composing. 

“Of course I’d love to come in. But you left,” gazing at her belly, he murmurs. “I thought you would want me to just –” he hesitates for a second, then lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Stay here.”

“Jakob,” a smile spreads across her face. “Of course I would love you to come in.”

•

“You know, it’s not very rare to see a baby daddy went lost on the way for a scan,” Rachel makes a joke when Jean is instructed to lie down on the examination table. “They usually get quite overexcited and head to the wrong place.”

When they got into the dimly lit room, the sonographer introduced herself as Rachel, and there’s a trainee midwife that Jakob thought is just a few years older than his eldest. Rachel then asked for Jean’s details, and some questions regarding her threatened miscarriage that he didn’t quite keep up. He finally settled himself in a stool that’s too small for him at the other side of the examination table, figured that keeping an eye on Jean and staying silent and sometimes feigning a smile when he’s being cued are the best help he could provide.

“Today, we are mainly looking at the condition of your uterus and how’s your baby doing, for what it has been a follow-up scan. We would still make a few shots and records here, a detailed one, and you would discuss the results with your consultant OB later,” as the trainee midwife helps Jean to lift her blouse and lower her trousers to her hips, Rachel briefs them casually in her stool and sets up the machine. “So, if you’re expecting the baby’s sex, I’d suggest you wait until the 20-week scan.”

“Sure thing,” Jean replies promptly. But when the girl touches her skin as she tucks the tissue papers around her clothing, though it’s just the tiniest bit, she still flinches at the sensation.

And he notices that. He lifts his hand in silent and slips across the examination table, gently touching her wrist. She rolls her head slightly to look at him as she feels his warmth radiates under her skin. The gentle contact, the silent tender, a stark contrast to her own lower back that lies bare against the cold leather surface. He stretches a small curve on his lips when she’s staring at him, but soon breaking off from their meeting eyes and eyeing the trainee midwife carefully until she finishes off her job on Jean’s now uncovered tummy. 

“We’re about to start,” Rachel stands up and waves the gel lightly in her hand. “Can I?”

Interrupted, Jean turns back. She nods as giving the permission, the sonographer takes a step forward and starts squeezing out the gel over her belly. 

“So, Jean, could you tell me when did the bleeding completely stop?”

“I think…um, probably two days after I was discharged.”

“Okay. Any more pain after that?”

“No. Not really.”

“Great,” Rachel puts down the gel. “And I assume you’ve been put to bed rest as suggested?”

Jean nods. “I was on bed rest until two days ago.”

“You did very well, Jean,” the sonographer says, giving an affirmative smile. “Now it’s time to see how’s your little one doing,” she sits back on her stool and gets down the handheld probe, moving through the gel across Jean’s skin. “Oh, you guys can watch there,” she directs her eyes to the mounted screen above them.

Both Jean and Jakob dart their eyes towards the screen instinctively. He isn’t sure if he’s ready – the last time he attended an ultrasound scan for his baby turned out becoming a painful thrust that buried deep down – but now the screen is turning on, the amorphous grey and white lines are twinning in the massive black space in a shape of a womb, overwhelming indexes and figures sit still around the corners, telling him this is it, this is the moment…with all things he does understand and doesn’t understand, there is a defined outline of a foetus in the centre of all white and black, perfectly clear and distinguishable. Suddenly, he finds himself getting stuck at the screen – his eyes, his mind, his soul, his everything – because it’s a baby. There is their baby.

“Alright, baby’s there,” Rachel announces cheerfully, moving around the probe to get a better angle of the baby where it lies inside Jean with the face down. 

“Oh, hello there,” Jean says, half-gasped, he can feel her muscle tensed. “Is this…normal? I mean, the baby is lying down like this?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty normal. Some babies like to pillow their mummy’s womb like that, resting, napping, it makes them feel secured. And looks like your little one is getting very much comfy there,” laughing softly, Rachel assures her. “But don’t get disappointed, let’s see if your baby will flip over later so that we could see the face. I could take some more measurements as well.” 

Then, she lets them listen to their baby’s heartbeat. Watching that little being on the screen, he’s somehow wooden, as he’s amazed by the waves that represent their baby’s heart rate flick across the screen, he hears the sound of a miraculous life that neither Jean and he have thought of creating – steady, fast, strong, almost ethereal – and registers what Rachel has just said, _nice one, 150 bpm_ , then he breathes, tries to breathe, breathing in and out slowly and deeply. But it seems like he hasn’t breathed for a while, as if his respiration system has stopped out of the sudden and forcefully functioned again, as if the molecular oxygen in the system has been missing somewhere and trying hard to go back. 

He remembers this part too well, well enough that he can still feel how the excitement that ended up crashing in suppressed fears, how the overloaded anxiety was mentally twisted into a false calm, trying so desperately to numb himself. And when their baby finally starts rolling over that makes others in the room get so excited, when Rachel then patiently informs them about a baby’s development at this stage of gestation and how their little one hits all the good measurements so far, he tries to look at something from that image on the screen. From their baby’s head to its translucent spine, the little hands and little legs, and anything he can identify inside Jean. He’s searching for something suspicious, something hidden, something cuts him fresh again to see it, if only he will find out himself rather than being told _there is something wrong_.

“This daddy is very quiet though,” some time later, Rachel points out. 

And now, on the screen, their baby is waggling. It seems to yawn at a time, then opens a fist and starts kicking, as though it is waking up from napping just to say hello; or it is actually raising its very little hand to complain, for all these people just disturbed it from sleep?

“Actually,” for Jakob has somehow neglected what is happening in his surrounding, Jean replies instead. “This is the first time he sees our baby.”

“Ah…I see. Must be mesmerising.”

However, this isn’t the first time he imagines these: a fussy little angel, a bit hot-headed, the combination of his two elder daughters, smart and sweet and extremely naughty. It would make him headache. At age two, it would spill every smoothie not because it didn’t like it, just because it found this playful; age seven, he bought it the first bike and watched it riding into the shrubs; age thirteen, it locked itself in the bathroom at night, trying on smoking; age seventeen, he finally allowed it to drive to town without his supervision only to find it came back with the car’s bumper missing…and with every part of him, he found himself ready to get hurt, to enjoy laughter, to go through frustration, to dive in endless love. He was ready to learn, to discover, to be inspired by how that little one would be filled in the rest of their lives. Each and every day, it would keep him humble, be grateful for allowed to receive its arrival, to love it unconditionally. But then, the imagination stayed as imagination, all readiness came fruitless – the moment they knew they had to make choices, for Maria would have lived, all of these were burnt to ashes with the termination of _a life_ , the removal of _their lives_ – in the end, life seemed long gone. 

His blurry vision swims with every movement that is captured into the screen, his heart squeezes, but he’s still breathing. When it’s too painful, he curls his fingers inward and wraps Jean’s wrist. His fingers fidget against her skin, punctuating each of his aching bit into her pulse. Like the Morse code, like their every own unspoken language. Can these imaginations that stranded years ago be dragged to the present, to this moment, seeping out to the reality? 

He turns to the sonographer, asks, “Will Jean be okay?” what he actually wanted to ask is that, this time, can he protect well this running pulse in his hand, and that dearly little beating heart? 

And his voice comes out unusually nasal that makes Jean shift her eyes at him instantly, shocking. He sniffles as he’s aware of that, using his other hand to rub his face before giving a soft _excuse me_ , only then everyone in this room realises that this big, quiet, and somehow pensive man has been weeping. Emotion has risen in a way that nobody sees it coming, including himself. 

“Right, let’s take a look here,” Rachel nods attentively and turns to her screen. “As you can see, the small separation of the placenta from the uterine wall,” she clicks and expands an area where a small dark spot in Jean’s womb is displayed on the screen, running more measurements. “Mhm…it isn’t tearing up more compared to the last scan for threatened miscarriage, according to the previous record. This is pretty good, actually. And given that Jean hasn’t experienced further bleeding or cramping since then, I’d say Jean is okay now.” 

He travels his eyes from the sonographer to Jean and back to the screen. That small dark spot is threatening, but their baby is still there, healthy and strong; and Jean is here, in his own hand, when he tries to look at the screen and searching again, there is nothing else. He finally admits that there is nothing else. He finally admits that _okay_ isn’t the answer he wants the most, but it’s the best answer he can have. 

“Of course, it doesn’t mean that both mummy and baby are completely fine. There are still very high risks for developing more complications in the future. Your doctor or midwife might suggest putting you in more scans throughout your pregnancy for closely monitoring,” Rachel throws a small smile, making an emphasis. “And for your own part, Jean, you would need to take very good care of yourself as for precaution, and strictly follow the advice from your doctor and midwife.”

She nods back. “I’ll take note of that.” 

“Well then, this is the rare part,” taking a few more shots, then zoom out, Rachel gives a wink at Jean before flashing a praising glimpse at Jakob. “I mean, not many men in this room remember to ask about their partners when their minds are now full of baby.” 

Jean blinks at that, turning to Jakob who is now putting all of him back to the screen, but he holds her tight. He holds her tight, as though she’ll be flying away if he doesn’t do so, too afraid to let go.

She bites her bottom lip and holds her breath, slowly easing herself out of his grip. He looks back at her as she does that, but she gives him a little smile, a comforted one. She can hold his hand if she wants to, interlacing her fingers with his, like lovers do, like once upon their pre-break up. But, rather, she gazes at him and ponders, moving her little finger instead. Across their minimal distance on the examination table, she finds his, twining in.

He dips his head down just as Jean turns away to engage in the conversation with Rachel, he stares at their locking part. Two little fingers from him and her, hook into a pinky swear, a childish gesture, but has signified countless of earnest promises through times, such ancient and reverent. If there is a promise they hooked, he doesn’t know what secret words Jean has made to him or what she has wanted him to make, he won’t ask, but he is touched. He’s being touched deep at the core. 

By the time the whole scan completed, they finally put their mind at ease. With Rachel’s repeated assurance on how excellent both Jean and their baby are doing, the appointment with the consultant OB later now seems so much less tense. And they will get the printouts, two sets, one for Jean and one for Jakob, something which Jean has been secretly delighted about, for the 12-week scan one Jakob has missed out. And many thanks to their little one who decided to flip over, Rachel managed to snap quite a few nice shots.

“It’s no guarantee yet, but I’d say your baby has quite long legs,” wrapping up, she gives.

Jean grimaces. “Well, it definitely gets that from its father, not me.” 

Rachel nods with a laugh and walks away. And the trainee midwife steps forward with some paper towels, ready to help Jean cleaning up.

“Um, please…let me?” Jakob whispers as he stands from his stool, the girl gladly hands over to him.

He leans forward and pulls out the tucked tissue papers around Jean’s clothing, wiping up the gel across her skin. He cleans her up with both hands, quietly, gently, and slowly, as every touch of his. As if he’s trying to cherish this moment for a little longer, he wants to tell their baby that whenever it is, they are here.

When the girl comes back with the plastic box that keeping Jean’s belongings and then leaves, he helps Jean sitting up. She slides her feet down to his side, threading her fingers through her hair. She watches him eyeing on her for two more seconds just to make sure she is well, watches him turning away to throw the trashed paper towels into the bin in a single wave, watches him turning back to her, watching her.

“Are you okay, Jakob?” carefully, she asks.

“Yeah,” he sniffles again, a bit embarrassed, then asks softly, “And you?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, he comes closer and raises his eyes. He looks into her, deeply. “You okay. That’s the most important thing.”

She winces, her eyes are steamy, then giving him some nods as well.

In this momentary alone time they share, he stands still before her, she straightens herself in the sitting, and their eyes level. If life is given time and space, if people can love someone they have never met, and he can tell that in her eyes, he can catch the very same tears as his. The same feeling. 

“You know what,” she says, glancing down at her abdomen then up right at him. “I think this little one really fancies Pappa’s cooking.”

There he grins, at last.

•

“Jean,” five more steps and he can reach her office, but he wants her to hear him first.

He stops by at the door, raising his left arm and slipping on his jacket. She’s staring at her MacBook, but she cups her jaw with one hand, fingers of the other hand are tapping at her desk. Thinking deep. 

“Jean?” 

She turns to him, expression unreadable. 

“I’m done with the dishes,” he announces.

After the follow-up appointment, he followed her home. She hid herself in the office when he winded around her kitchen. They later engaged in soft conversations over the creamy mushroom soup with freshly baked garlic bread he bought on the way back to her house, fish fillets with lemon butter sauce, poached spinach with sesame, chocolate chips ice cream as dessert, and she didn’t comment when he said he would frame their little one’s ultrasound printout as he did for _all_ his children. And when he refused to let her do the dishes after they finished up their dinner, she retired herself back into the office until now. It’s only until now, he somehow notices –

“Okay,” she says. That’s it. That’s it, something amiss.

He tries to ignore that, twisting his head to take a glance at the hallway. It has well past the usual dinner time of the Milburns, and Otis has not come back yet. He shifts back, gives, “Otis is late,” and he just realises she didn’t tupperware up any leftover for her son.

“He won’t be home tonight,” she stares at him, unusually serious. “He’s with Eric. As I requested.” 

He looks back at her, a bit confounding. Things are getting weirder. 

“Okay,” he brushes off. “I’m off, then. Are you coming?”

“Jakob, actually –” she takes off her glasses, turning her chair so that she can face him entirely. She gazes up right at him, at the next second, though, she frowns, sighs, hesitates. As she’s brewing something that causes her nothing but pain.

“What is it?” and the alarm goes off inside him immediately. He can’t see her like this. “You can tell me, Jean, anything.”

“I think,” she considers, trying to find the appropriate words. “I need a talk…with you.” 

“This is easy. We can talk now.”

“Excellent,” her tone falls flat, but she rises from her chair in quick, hovering before him for a moment then directs her eyes to her adjacent therapy room. “I think we’ll go there.”

He follows her to get into the therapy room. At first, he genuinely thought that she needed to talk, but when she gets to her place and holds out a hand ever so well-practised, _please have a seat_ , and when he gets himself sinking into the chair at her opposite – for a second thought, he figures all of these are just the other way round.

“Jakob,” she begins, and his eyes dart right towards her. “In this room, even in this house, at this moment it’s just the two of us,” the sweet Jean is gone, Dr Jean Milburn hat on. “This is a completely safe space; you are free to communicate…”

Her voice creeps into the air continuously as the strangest feeling fills up this room, striking his state of alert, the alarm goes _code RED_. However, it seems all too late. 

“I thought…you needed someone to talk to?”

Pausing, she lets loose a sigh. “I do need someone to talk to,” her chair begins to appear it’s too level for her condition. With her leg crossed, she has to slouch a bit against her chair to accommodate her belly. He can tell that she isn’t comfortable in that seat. “Just recently, I came to aware that a story I was told, was actually… _incomplete_.” 

He winces. It feels like a gate has opened, the beast that once trapped in the dark is howling. For once he needs not to think – what else story could she have been told?

“Since finding out, I was having a whole load sense of inadequacy, bewilderment, and sadness,” her fingers dance, and her words pound hard. “And those feelings are just...suffocating,” she looks right into him, half asserts and half pleads, “Jakob, I need you to talk me through this.”

He breaks off his gaze. “Ola has spoken to you.”

“She did,” she admits. “But just some pieces of the story.” 

Blankly but not entirely, he stares down at his hands that drop in the laps, steadying his breaths. He wonders what pieces of the story mean. What does she mean? What does she want from him? 

For a very brief, awful moment, he thinks, what can he give?

“She first mentioned to me during our ride. I didn’t realise who we were talking about at the time. Until she came to visit me that day,” breathing heavily, she gives. “I’ve stopped her, Jakob.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear from _you_.”

He lifts his eyes, gazing at her directly. He’s still steadily breathing, but the expression that emerges on his face isn’t quite right – the distorted calm, bears a whole rage that is strangled, refraining a faint edge of irrational – all of a sudden, he isn’t sure how can he see her correctly. He isn’t sure who is she that rooted deep in him. 

“So, it is just a bait,” quietly and solemnly, his icy glare is sharpened with the pain of distrust. “This, whole day…whole thing?” he can’t help himself from thinking, _are you calculating me?_

“No,” she answers, capturing his full indication. He can see the rims of her eyes straight reddened. “Jakob, it’s. Not.”

He ducks his head immediately, frowning tight as a trembling sigh is forced out. A twinge of guilt rails over him. He knows exactly what he’s giving to her, and he knows exactly this is not what he should be given to her, he should believe her. But the pain, the growing pain of instability and exposure, throbs through all his tensed muscles, running into his veins… 

“I apologise. I understand you might feel unjustly manipulated, but I do want you to be with me, Jakob,” she says, wholeheartedly, as if each of her words can bleed. “I want us to go through these, to participate every moment of this child’s life, and maybe – even, to build a home together. And I know you wanted this too,” and once in that drizzling gloomy day, she said she wanted to get to know him better, she said she wanted to grow older with him. “But if I never get to know you, the real you, it is incredibly hard to make these work…to make us work.” 

There was once, when they were still in a relationship, he dropped by to see her, and she left her door opened. He’d made the table, made the tea, waiting for her for a nice teatime to spend together. But what he had really waited was a great, horrendous fight – the man’s scream, the woman’s cry, despair and resentment of a 24-year marriage shrieked into a hysteria that tore up the old scars, breaking through the barrier of that closed therapy room, frightened him inside out. It was the first time he saw how intense her job could be. And when she sent the couple away and came back to the kitchen, she sank into his embrace with huge relief, brushing her cheek over his left chest, where the heart beating. _“They never really know each other,”_ she said into him. 

And it is here, he meets her eyes and recalls, there were times he didn’t think Jean Milburn would need someone to grow older with, to _make us work_. There were times he didn’t think Jean Milburn would say –

“Could you please, tell me the complete story?” her tone is low, but firmly. “You’ve told me the story of _the unhappy man_. This time, I need you to tell me the story of Jakob Nyman.”

“Jean,” he warns. “Please don’t do this.”

“Isn’t this the intimacy you wanted, Jakob? The trust you desire, no fear, no concealment, and no rejection?”

Her voice is a distant wind, but it still splits him through. He stares at her and cringes, as if the tension between them has just strangled him. For a fleeting second, he discerns how spoken words are hitting back at people, how easy he can paint things darker but not lighter. 

“I could have asked you these when I asked you to stay that night,” licking her lips, she reveals hesitantly. “But you didn’t stay, and I didn’t ask…it’s very, very difficult to see you like that.”

And suddenly, a snap, all things click again. 

“You’ve planned on it,” he states, not asks; he isn’t angry, but hurt. “You didn’t want to see me yesterday. You wanted to see me _today_.”

“Because I need time,” her eyes swamp. She’s bringing all of her to say theses, to see him. “Because I want you to know this is not some sort of spontaneous confrontation or casual enquiry. I have made myself ready.”

 _You are not_. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t speak that out again. 

“We had gone through that far, Jakob,” she encourages. “You are not going to hurt me now.”

He shakes his head, laughing out sadly. It’s low and restrained, but striking, as if the echo keeps bouncing off. Most of the time, perception is barely an optical illusion – people are not always getting things right when they think they are.

“Okay. Looks like it’s me that stop you from telling the truth,” she breathes, now clasping her hands and guards at her lower abdomen, determined. “Well, I’m here, in this seat, not as Jean but someone who are open and ready to listen, to receive whatever you are going to offer.”

He goes rigid. The turbulence inside has darkened his gaze. 

It’s at this very moment, he realises she’s going to therapise him – the rule of the universe, life has been destined the moment it is created; the small broken off pieces will always come back, making a full circle – to the end, he is still the person who sits across her in this room, like once in that loving little awkward day, she asked about his scrotums, the sun shone straight.

“Please, Jakob,” below her glassy eyes, the pale blue is gritty and steel. “I need you to tell me.”

In the sum up of all those times before and after, he wonders how many lives that are completely set apart from his have been weaving in and out of this room, like stitching up a wound? How many of them have been sitting in his seat, breathing, talking, crying, arguing? How much shame, hate, and tears have been stretching out raw in front of her, then evaporated, lifted, people left this room, but these anguishes never did? How many people could remember they came out as the same person as they went in?

“My wife, Maria…she was the most important person in my life,” he wonders how many new scars are scratched, how many old wounds are sewed. “For once, and a really long time, she was my only home.” 

His voice starts off quivering, too low, too deep. He shifts away from her and gazes down at the sheer shadow of her lodging on the carpet, across the distance, to his own feet. 

“When she was sick, I thought, we would get through this. When we had to –” he swallows, losing a beat. “Give up our baby. I thought, as long as my wife is safe, that’s all that matters to me. Of all many things, many years, even when doctors told us, _be prepared_ , I never thought she would be leaving us, leaving me.”

He travels back to her, seeing her staring back at him. She breathes rather calmly, her chest expanding and falling in rhythmic; the clasped hands still hold tight, the watery eyes pin on him fixed. He doesn’t know as he continues, what will all these be.

“After she passed away…I couldn’t get up from where I was. I think I would die too. But time past, I was still breathing,” pains wave over again, like a sudden tide, rather tranquil at first, and then he looks down only to find how intense and overwhelming it is, there is no way out but be pulling in. “There was a very long time, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about…everything. Bad thoughts just wouldn’t go away, they stayed with me at night, eating me,” and here comes the storm screeching. “So, I started to drink. It helped me to forget…it put me to sleep.”

For those torturous six months without a driving license, the question being asked the most was not _can you fix that_ , but _why don’t you drive?_ Olga would tell the truth, and Ola would make sure everyone who asked this question to get a decent answer, _“Because my dad was a drunk.”_ Most people would laugh at that, then a pat on his back, _your girl is a real fun_. But what they never knew was that, somehow, a truth was indeed told in jokes. 

“One night, I was drunk, and I went to the balcony. Our flat in London had this balcony, I made it into a small garden, Maria and the girls liked to spend time there. I looked at the sky, no stars that night. I tried to think of what I had done and hadn’t done in my life. But whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. And my girls…what we were living in was just a house, not a home, I couldn’t give my girls what Maria and I could have given together…” there is a moment he feels like he has shortness of breath – thousands of words that used to run across his mind now seem to punch through his lungs, making holes, seeking a way out rather than being speaking out. And tears start welling up. But in the tremendous tide, memories coast down the shore, unstoppable. “Maybe I was too drunk at the time, or maybe, maybe I was just too missing…the loves I had lost…I really, really wanted to go home…” and he is suddenly standing drunkenly on the parapet again – tears kept streaming down, streaming down to the world beneath him, soaking into the ground of streets, nobody felt it. And he took in the night view of this city for the one last time, wasn’t sure if he would remember this far, glittering skyline in the afterlife; and he closed his eyes and breathed, feeling the night breezes, feeling the wracking waves of ache finally broke through the sanity. The next second, the weight dropped, the heart lurched, the world spun. In the night air, he was weightless. Weightless. Until the weightless piece of sound he has tried for a lifetime not to articulate, now forcibly thrusting into the unbearable stab to Jean, and himself. “So I jumped.”

So, he jumped. Falling.

Numbly, the first thing he sees is still her eyes, threading tears and then shut tight. He sees how three words simply change the whole landscape, break down her walls of fortitude. He sees how every single line of her features is drawn in the great tenses. She purses her lips and quickly lifts her hand to press at her chest, hard enough to leave a mark there. 

“I survived. They said I could have died if there wasn’t an awning on the second floor,” he murmurs, but what he really feels is just the chewing of two lips. “Maria’s parents…they didn’t understand. They were very disappointed in me. They wanted to…to bring my girls away from me,” it’s the mention of his daughters that chokes him hard, a sudden burst out, but he holds back in quick, in trembling. “My girls cried, in hospital, their grandparents…they dragged my girls away, j-just near my bed, and I couldn’t – I couldn’t get up.”

Many years later, with great dignity and decent manner, he could tell her that he couldn’t go through that kind of pain again. Many years later, he can as well tell her these with the scalding tears he tries to hold back but still rolling down in the silent, incessantly…but the pain has its own memory, that kind of pain is still the same: the painful thrust of lost, the devastation of helplessness – carefully buried, unaltered, lasted forever – leaving an indelible memory trace. Every now and then, even a gentle touch can magnify the feeling, excruciating. 

“It was my sister,” he says, breathes, continues, “She helped me get back my girls from their grandparents, she fought for me, insisting that my girls must stay with me. She quit her job in Sweden, staying here just to look after me and the girls, to support us, to protect us…until I was well enough to get up. I owed my sister a lot…and I had failed my girls, I almost lost them,” he sniffles, brutally rubbing over his face, only then he’s well enough to face her again. “You see, Jean, Jakob Nyman’s story is not a good story. It only tells people how much he had hurt his love ones…and even his in-laws, they don’t talk to him anymore,” he looks right into her, holding, searching. He wants to know if those blue eyes are still the same as he first met them. “Is this the complete story that you wanted?” 

She breathes shakily, then averts her eyes as she drops her hand from her chest, blinking repeatedly to get rid of those burning tears. On the surface, whatever people say, she knows the feelings are always, totally divorcing from hers. _A fine balance_ , as she once told Otis, _listening to people without inserting yourself into their reality_. Under the skin, however, emotions crack in deep, throbbing. She thought a tangible truth would provide a tool for herself and Jakob to find the vocabulary for the pain, but she has mistaken the count – every piece of his life that he verbalises out is no longer a story, it’s a melting reality that she has stepped herself in.

His question stews deep. It already stirs the intense silence like breaking the water tension that, instead, asking her: _am I the one you wanted?_

“I had been broken, Jean. They _stitched back_ me,” his heart crushes as the words roll out. He clutches his thighs in a faint hope that the physical pain can be a distraction. “After _that_ happened, I promised myself to live for my girls. If I fall again…no one, including myself, will be able to put my pieces back.” 

But as she turns back to him, the swollen pale blue meeting his saddened eyes, only then he has naively realised that the pain is forever the same, regardless of which form. 

“Therefore, you rejected me when you thought I wasn’t ready,” she concludes. “Because you couldn’t give yourself to me…that you couldn’t trust me, ready to catch you.”

He shifts away as her tears start springing again, a silent agreement. His forearms have been hardened in that awkward positions upon the arms of the chair.

She exhales hastily, the familiar ache tightens her chest again. She can’t help herself but to lift her hand once more, pressing tightly at that broken heart, keeping herself grounded. But it’s still hurt greatly. It’s tormenting when watching him falls to pieces. 

“I’m convinced that you do not have any intention to tell me these, even by the time when we were in a relationship. I tried to understand, to rationalise, but…” the professional mind fades a bit, she closes her eyes, forcing out, “Why, Jakob?” 

He knows she’s hurt; this is unfair to her. However, this isn’t the vulnerability that he refuses to let her see. This isn’t something that can be easily deduced into grammatical components for expression.

“There are things in life, too painful, like needles and threads sew up your mouth,” there are things only be allowed to plant in times and memories. “Open your mouth, you’ll bleed,” there are people who cannot speak. “And you’ll scare people, or worse, you’ll make their hearts bleed too…you just cannot speak out.”

“So, this is also why you are not going to tell me that you’re having the recurrence of insomnia,” she inferences hurtfully, but her eyes are watering with assertive. “And you’re probably in a relapse of depressive mood, mainly because of me.” 

He turns his head back slowly, mechanically. The raw emotions flooding inside are strong enough to paralyse him.

“Because you can’t tell me I’m threatening your hard-winning life,” it’s more tormenting when she finally aware it is her that makes him fall back to pieces. “You can’t tell me I’m triggering your loss and pain.”

Ever so mindful and plain, he gives, “They just…happen like that.” 

“Are you avoiding to recognise me as the root of your problem?” she probes.

“Not you…just me,” he answers, frowning tight. “I’m afraid to hurt you.” 

“You might not be able to protect everyone. That unrealistic desire might cause you more pain.” 

“I can’t hurt you…” his gaze travel down to her belly, the feeling of losing her and the baby haunts him once again. “I can’t see you getting any more harm, Jean, I really can’t get –” and the voice trails off from there, the rest of the unspoken words are buried.

“This is a tormented cycle of fear, loss, and pain,” she points out quietly. “Are you been trapped, or you’re actually trapping them?”

She looks at him, even when all of him has been pixelated in her teary eyes, leaving a giant, blurry silhouette, for a splinter of second she really _sees_ this man – one who is so big and sweet and sensible, would ever blurt out at night so sentimental, that sometimes, he couldn’t imagine the arrival of the next morning; one who told her he could paint days and nights, beneath those words were sleepless nights that mixing up the paints and turpentine, layered and veiled the naked lady; one who bears with the pair of eyes of the cloudless sky, ever so fascinating, there is always an abstract shade of melancholia that doesn’t fade away, such beautifully saddening – she ponders how his life would have been if there was no confrontation like this. If there were no finding their way back to each other and the existence of their baby. If there were no intimacy issue and a stupid kiss. If there were no hot sex and hot soup. If there were no fuck the fear and scrotal anxiety…

“Jakob, I need you to be honest,” despite she has sensed his _heaviness_ ever since the beginning, despite she has hurt him badly, but why, why she never really opens her mouth wide and asks him, “What if, in your life…there was no me?”

“Jean,” he says, and for a second, he sees similar pain in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You need to know,” she insists. She can’t even distinct if it’s for the therapeutic purpose or her own desire to get to know. “It’s very important for your own well-being. I care about you…a lot.” 

He knows she cares about him. She wants him to be happy. And he stares at her and knowing that he would have offered all of him without a single delay, for he wants her to be happy too. He tries to picture what his life would have been if he would never have her crossing the path of his life, like the parallel lines to one another, like their stars have never collided. But the mental image that formed across his mind is so nebulous and obscure.

“Sorry…I really don’t know.”

“Okay,” registering that, she paraphrases, “Do you think your conditions and more importantly, your life, will get any better if we just –” and she hesitates. Something that doesn’t fit the mouth, something _you just cannot speak out_.

He stares at her intensely. The eyes are gloomy, dark enough to swallow both of them. 

She draws in a shaky breath, holding back the tears, continues, “If we just…really, _stop_ here?” 

The moment his familiar words slip out of her tongue, she gasps, as though the air has been sucked out of her lungs and worsens her chest pain. She squeezes herself harder, only then she notices how her fingers tremble against her chest. 

And his face carves into anguished astonishment as if he doesn’t understand each of the words she uttered. 

“It’s okay if you tell the truth,” she tells him, because she doesn’t know how to say she’s ready to leave him if he asks her to this time, that she will understand this time. She will know how to _make us work_ – _us_ , him and her – as in the parents of a child, and _only_ the parents of this child. She will do whatever is best for him.

But his gaze changes – softer, glimmer, more tears, more unspoken emotions. That feels as though there are a million miles of distance set between the two of them, the polar, the unravelling opposite that will never touch each other.

“How will my life get any better…” even with a broken heart and a pair of saddened eyes, even the warming liquids overflow and burn the creases of his cheeks, he slides his hand up slowly to his left chest and palms there. The heart. “If I remove someone that grows deep in here?” 

And she freezes. A question that she’s supposed to be able to answer. 

For a moment, her lips tremble and tremble, the heartbeat already louder than any word. Until the corners of her eyes start crinkling, she moves up her other hand to shield her closing eyes as soon as the tears bursting out. A sob tears from her throat and her exposed skins flame in red. For the first time sitting in this room, she doesn’t know what to say the next. 

This is the breaking point, he may be falling again, this is the point when he realises the greatest fall wasn’t jumping off the building where he used to call home, wasn’t rummaged by his own mentality, but love. Falling in love is the most lethal. Finally, and unavoidably, he watches her unable to catch him, but to fall with him.

The heart that she has grown inside wrenches. In the darkness, celestial reasons shoot across his sky like meteors, eventually fall over the horizon. Faded. Vanished. Like they never happened. He really considers her words, for a brief moment, maybe…just stop here. If she wants too. Just stop here. 

But the clock continues to tick, losing count of the heartbeat. This is his biggest fear, he drags her down with him. And the silence hurts so deep, he can hear the land sighing. 

Her crying turns into silent trails of tears, and his own has dried on his cheeks. She sniffles, her hands now drop flatly on her belly, stroking gently; he stares down, rummages through the wet prints on his jeans, figuring that maybe tears are oozing into the skin.

Neither knows where to begin. And neither knows where to finish. 

In the end, he wipes his face again, decides, _I really should go now_ , saving both of them from this endless, crushing silence. Then he stretches himself out of the chair, leaving. 

“Jakob,” she stops him.

His hand barely touches the handle to twist. He waits. 

“Do you know what makes everlasting happiness?”

It’s intuitive. “Love.”

“Pain,” she gives, sounding hoarse but lucid. “Only those who suffered can really retain happiness. As they realise how much they can stretch every moment of their lives, to taste every bittersweet of their days slowly, to seek every painful little detail that makes them happy. Repeat is painful, but this is how happiness is created, appreciated, and lasted.”

And he stands still there, back to her, feeling the cold metal strikes with the heat of his hand, the boiling of emotional pain. He can hear it hisses.

“The only way to begin to heal is to _speak out_. Speaking out is painful, I know, but you did it.”

“So, did I scare you…or did I make you bleed?” he asks, but what makes her really bleed is his monotone. “Or both?”

She squeezes her eyes and sighs painfully, palming the outline of her belly. 

“Jean,” he can’t bring himself to turn back, he can’t look into her eyes. “I will leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

And that drags him back. Because he can’t leave her too. Because whatever his mind tells him to, he can’t leave her again when she asks him to stay.

“I’m truly sorry. For your past, for my ignorant, for life, for everything,” she says patiently, softly, sincerely. “I know I had hurt you greatly…I don’t even know how I can ask for your forgiveness.”

“Jean,” he cautions. Like losing a strand of strength, he heaves out a weary breath and shuts his eyes, leaning his forehead against the frosted glass. 

She cradles her little bump with one hand, the other grabs at the arm of her chair for support, slowly getting herself up. He hears her footsteps approaching.

“But before you even consider forgiving me, I hope that the first person you are forgiving…” he listens to the soft sounds of her wedges tap on the carpet then the hardwood floor…and then it stops, the same goes to his heart. “Is yourself.”

He shudders into motion as soon as he feels her touch from the back – both hands, gently resting on the tips of his shoulders – an unutterable feeling strikes through him, like electrical pulse shoots into his veins. When this night starts agitating again, the adrenaline soars, the darkness calls, his heart has stopped beating and never recovered since then.

“It’s okay if you still knee deep in pain,” she mutters, a bit shiver. She stands behind him, trailing her hands down his trembling frame. “It’s okay if you have been broken,” a caress. “If there are missing pieces,” another caress. “If there is an empty space you won’t be able to put the pieces back together…” and the caress ceases, as if she has brushed away all the invisible pieces of weight that lay upon his shoulders. “Remember, you are not a survivor; you are a warrior. You are in a fight that there is not only victory but also defeat. It’s okay to allow yourself to accept things that are not okay, that might cause harms and tears and pains. Because there are people who love you back, as genuine as you love them, no matter what…”

Her voice slinks into his heart, and suddenly everything is intact – his heart starts beating again, his mind races to the extreme, the pain inside is taking over him. He furrows the brows and clenches his jaw tight, muscles pulling taut to withstand a full force of emotion that seems to cut off his airway, detaches his vocal cords, almost robbing him of the ability to self-control. 

Lately, she has been thinking about this: she always forgets to look at her back. In her previous life, she always forgot that he just stood right behind her, holding out his hand ready to hold her, all she had to do was just turning over. So, this becomes the bittersweet moment that she stretches, laying forever in her memory. She tries to breathe, staring at his back, there is a lane for her fingers to remember the traces on his body, tears are sitting in her eyes again. In her present life, she steps out of her independence to reach him. She stamps herself against his back, arms sliding under his to encircle him, to embrace him. This time, she’ll hold him as he held her.

And he jolts, dropping his grip at the handle, his hands fall back to the sides. His bloodshot eyes wide open, tears coursing down before he can even try to figure out… 

“If you are falling, it’s okay…” she says, voice too soft. Her cheek brushes across the texture of his jacket, the velvet creases have fettered too much of missing. She can smell the very faint scent of his detergent, the faded cologne, the future ahead. In their interwoven heartbeats, she shuts her eyes, breathing through him. “I’ll catch you this time. I promise.”

Bathing in the dim light, the awful sounds pulsate in the room – the tired of losing, the helpless of aching – all gathered by her small body, turning into a drowning gasp, a wounded wail. He leans all of his weight to the door as if he’s losing his balance. He sobs into space where she can’t see, but she clutches around his waist firmly, knitting into a full circle – a closure of her therapy, a symbol of empowerment, a gesture of intimacy. 

In the thick, vicious darkness, he is blind. He can fall from nowhere several times. He can crack himself and not knowing when it’s the time he will be completely broken into pieces and never open the eyes. It’s a cycle. A cycle of opening his eyes and finding himself still alive, then falling all over again. He can’t do that; he can’t let himself fall again. It’s a cycle of tormenting, as she said.

“It’s okay. I’ll catch you,” she whispers, her tears ink into his jacket. She presses herself deeper, wrapping him tighter. “I’ll catch you.” 

He’s tensed, alert. Another wave of pain roaring, laps at him and throbs through his head and limbs. He doesn’t think he can live through it; he can’t breathe. It will crumble him. But he lifts his right hand to reach her forearm, agonisingly slow, finally clinging himself to her. 

He knows she is ready to catch him. He knows she will let him sleep. 

He closes his eyes and falls into the night like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter!  
>  -  
>  Honestly, this chapter drained my emotions so much. And ends up, there are so many words I'd like to share but I don't know how. So I guess I'd just leave an image here, it's a quote that I have no idea who has created, but it keeps me thinking about Jakob in this fic and eventually it gives myself so much strength in this hard time. I hope it can give you strength as well.
> 
> -  
>  Any comment would be appreciated! Thank you so much!


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